Interstitium
by AssaultSloth
Summary: Flashbacks, interstitial scenes, and backdoor dealings. A companion to ME2 focusing on characters and worlds, big and small.
1. Chapter 1, Postmortem, Tali'Zorah

**Post Mortem - Tali'Zorah vas Neema**

* * *

–

The bar shook as yet another ship-that-was-not-the-Normandy made berth. Tali'Zorah vas Neema did not bother to lift her head from the bar table – there was no point in looking; the ship was not the one she had been praying for. It felt wrong.

To onlookers, the young quarian might have appeared passed out drunk, visor down on the darkest, most out of the way table she could find. Of course, they would be wrong – Canary-9 was populated almost entirely by humans, with nary a dextro-compatible drink to be found – but Tali wasn't inclined to correct them. In fact, she was listening, her long toes splayed out on the floor like white-knuckled stethoscopes. The sounds of the space station – too low for most species to hear – reverberated in Tali's sharp ears. Every sound, from the gentle hum of the station's life support systems to the clattering steel of a half-dozen private mining ships offloading their cargo holds in the underbelly ten floors below, sent gentle vibrations rippling throughout the superstructure, and she heard it all. It took practice to resolve any information out of the jumble of warped creaks and groans, but their keen hearing was just one reason quarians made such spectacular engineers – the lopsided death throes of a failing engine stood out like a sore thumb to any quarian that paid attention.

It did her little good now. The ship landing at the moment was much too heavy, too dense and unwieldy to be the always-graceful Normandy – Tali had recognized the sound of massive load-bearing clamps deploying and the pathetic bleat as the station's overworked mass effect generators compensated for the new arrival. It was probably yet another mining barge, filled to capacity with palladium. Tali sighed and relaxed her toes, disappointed. What foolish hope she'd refused to release already was slowly wiggling its way out of her grip. As if to taunt her, the inside of her visor still glowed with the short message she'd found waiting for her on the old channel two days before.

_Normandy down. Shepard MIA. Canary-9, Anjea, Amada. –GV_

She'd hardly been able to believe it then and she hardly believed it now. It didn't seem possible. Not a month ago she had watched her commander emerge victorious over Sovereign. He was a hero to billions. Even after the Council had stepped in to contain the situation and sent Shepard off to fight geth remnants where he couldn't stir up any further trouble, rumors of his victory had spread through the galaxy like wildfire.

Tali had remained with the Normandy's jubilant crew those first few days, almost unwilling to believe in their success. Ostensibly they were hunting geth, but there had been a great deal more drinking and sleeping than actual work – Shepard and Pressly had turned a blind eye. Eventually, however, the humans' booze had run out, Shepard's boot had come down, and Tali had had to muster up the courage to make her departure.

Tali smiled at the memory. She remembered standing with Shepard on the docks of a turian space station, neither speaking as they awaited her shuttle, and having a distinct feeling that her commander's story – the Normandy's story – was not yet finished. The Reapers were still coming and she knew Shepard would not let the Council bench him for long. When the shuttle had finally arrived, it had taken a great deal of willpower to leave her friend and mentor behind. On some level she knew that, had he asked, she would have stayed, but of course Shepard would never ask such a thing. She had done her best to hide her disappointment. He had wished her luck, told her how much he'd miss her, how proud of her he was, and then they had parted ways, back to their respective places in the galaxy. Shepard had adventures ahead of him, and Tali had reluctantly accepted that her part in them was over.

Some adventure. Hardly a month afterwards and commander and ship were gone. Some quiet part of Tali wondered guiltily if things might have been different had she been there. More rational parts told her not – the Normandy's engineering crew was among the best, with or without her. Her decision to leave might well have saved her life. She had not abandoned her friends, not really. Still, the guilt was there. All the more because there was still no news.

She had been on Canary-9 for nearly a full day now with hardly ten minutes of sleep. As soon as Garrus' message had appeared she had taken a small ship (the captain of the Neema had granted her request without a second thought – since returning she'd become something of a celebrity on the flotilla, for more reason than one) and made for the Amada system with all haste, landing on Canary-9, one of Anjea's dozen or so orbital mining stations. She'd made it past the station's heightened security with relatively little fuss – the human dockworkers had not looked overjoyed to see her, but, perhaps sensing her fragile mood, had let her by with a few gruff warnings. Alliance men had been everywhere, rushing here and there like they were under attack. They scrambled about, hastily evacuating parts of the station of their usual inhabitants to secure them against observation, and any attempts Tali made to follow them or find out what was happening were met with stony denial.

So now she sat in an overcrowded bar and hoped beyond hope that Garrus had been wrong. She did not know the turian to be one for jokes, especially about something so serious as this, but she did not think she could accept any other explanation. Shepard _couldn't_ be dead. Still, with every hour she listened, every ship-that-was-not-the-Normandy that pulled up to the station, every frustrated Alliance officer she saw running by, the impossible seemed realer and realer. Still, she kept herself as composed as possible and sat and waited for a ship that she secretly knew would never come, the whirr of her helmet's dehumidifiers her only company.

"I knew C-H was on hard times, but I didn't realize we'd already sunken to bringin' in _quarians_." The voice practically spat that last word, and Tali's eyes narrowed under her helmet. She lifted her head to face the trio of oil-stained humans that approached her little corner, darkening her visor on reflex. "Guess they ain't heard we don't want 'em here," the leader said, stroking the bristles on his chin with one hand while the other gripped a short dagger. Tali felt a pang of anger flash through her. How dare they speak to her like this? Had she not earned better? She wanted immediately to unleash all the pain and anguish of the past two days on the humans, but, like a true quarian, quashed the urge behind the necessity of being diplomatic. On the flotilla or off, quarians were raised knowing that they only survived by getting along. Perhaps that was part of why the rest of the galaxy felt so confident pushing them around.

"Nobody brought me anywhere," she replied quietly, noting how the men had chosen to stand close, walling off her escape with their tall forms. Diplomacy or not, almost automatically she was planning contingencies. Her eyes flitted across the humans, taking in every detail. Lessons Shepard and others had given her on her first days on the Normandy came back to her mind, lessons about situational awareness, about fighting or fleeing, about prioritizing targets. One of the humans in the back was doing a poor job concealing a hold-out pistol in one pocket – he would be most dangerous. Of course, all three of the men were solidly-built and probably outweighed her by half. Even an unarmed human could crack a visor. She couldn't give them that chance. Her hand slithered down to rest on the grip of her shotgun.

"Maybe you can't hear too good in that helmet," the leader said again, taking a step towards her. "But you ain't welcome here. We don't go through all hell and creation to get these contracts so you goddamn _quarians_ can come and snatch them out from under us." Behind him his cohorts nodded solemnly.

Tali frowned. She had been too fortunate lately, flying with Shepard's crew and her own people, and had nearly let herself forget what sort of place the galaxy could be. Most of the miners on Canary-9 were contractors for the human Cord-Hislop firm. The Amada system lacked the infrastructure to support large-scale mining operations within legal safety constraints, but there was nothing to stop unscrupulous companies from letting non-employees take the risk. Thousands of humans worked the mines, filling their ships with as much ore as they could get their hands on and carting it to one of the stations orbiting the gas giant Anjea, where it could be loaded onto proper CH freighters and shipped elsewhere for refining. It was filthy, dangerous work – unfortunately, exactly the sort of work the quarians were known for tackling. Her kin were competent and often willing to work for low pay, the bane of blue-collar laborers the galaxy over. Tali felt for the humans, she really did. Still, their words made her blood boil with righteous anger. She clenched her teeth, containing herself.

"Sorry," she managed, not meaning it. "I'm not here to take your job. I am here looking for… a friend." The human misinterpreted the hesitation in her voice for fear and took another lurching step forward, offering Tali a good look at the sweaty sheen on his face. Her olfactory sensors gave a disapproving beep as they detected the alcohol on his breath.

"Get off this station," he said, grinning lecherously.

"You are treading in still air," Tali warned, hoping he would understand the quarian phrase. "I am not helpless." Her face was grim and determined – she had no intent of backing down. In her time on the Normandy, she had faced charging krogan and colossi, sentient plants and cyborgs, mercs and husks and all manner of foe. She liked to think they had underestimated her, and that their final taste of what the quarian people could do had rung true in their last moments, courtesy of a blast from her shotgun. Now her friend was missing or worse, and three drunkards thought they could muscle her away?

The man slid into the seat next to her, unaware of how close to death he was coming. Her defiance only seemed to encourage him. Behind him, his friend had drawn his weapon, and now all three pressed in on her, cutting off all possible escape. Tali silently disengaged the clamp on her shotgun, feeling its reassuring weight drop into her hand. She did not want to have to do this – these men were drunk and desperate, not in control of themselves – but she would defend herself. It was what Shepard would do.

The man in front made his move, and she made hers.

His clumsy strike undershot her by a foot as she twisted backwards, planting a foot in the man's gut and drawing her shotgun in one fluid motion. Quarians were stronger than they looked – the kick was like a cannonball to the stomach, and the man went down without delay, clutching his sides in pain. Servos clicked as Tali's shotgun expanded and she shoved it against her aggressor's soot-stained forehead. Still wincing, the man eyed the barrel as his mind struggled to catch up with what had happened.

She was spared the need to pull the trigger when a mountain of flesh peaked behind the men. The krogan towered over the humans, his bulk seeming to swallow up all the light in the bar. He bulldozed through them without breaking stride, casually shoving the incensed leader to the floor as he eased his great body into the bench opposite Tali. One crimson eye alighted on Tali's raised shotgun. Wrex grinned amusedly, as if only now realizing what he'd interrupted.

The man limped to his feet, staunching the fresh flow of blood coming from his nose with one hand. He glanced about - his friends had already bid a hasty retreat – and Tali could almost see the rage seep out of him, replaced by resignation. He stared, utterly defeated, at the shotgun still trained at his face. Wrex rumbled with laughter.

"I don't think you know who you're messing with," he said, chuckling. "If you did, I think you'd be apologizing." He flicked his massive head towards Tali.

"S…sorry, ma'am," the human said once he'd found his tongue.

"Get out of here," Wrex commanded. The human didn't need to be told twice, and practically fell over himself in his rush to escape. Tali watched him scamper away, the twist of a grin on her lips. At length she lowered her weapon.

"Making new friends everywhere you go, huh Tali?" Wrex asked, and she couldn't help but laugh. It surprised her how happy she was to see the krogan. Back on the Normandy he had always been aloof, rejecting her occasional attempts to talk with irritated snorts that spoke louder than words. Still, Shepard had trusted Wrex, and had included the great tank of an alien in his ground parties at almost every opportunity. He had nearly died protecting Shepard during their final battle with Saren. For all his brutish behavior, Wrex was a friend. Tali managed a smile at him behind her mask as he ordered a drink from the nervous human tending the bar.

"So." Wrex started. "Where's the turian? He'd better have a damn good reason for calling me here." Tali frowned. Did Wrex not know what had happened? That their home and commander had fallen in battle? Or did he know and not care? Surely he felt something – why else would he be here? – but to look at him, Wrex had nary a care in the world.

"I don't know," Tali admitted, wringing her hands. "I haven't seen anyone. A few Alliance men heading to the lower levels, but they wouldn't let me pass." Wrex said nothing. "I hope they're alright," she added after a minute – Wrex only grunted noncommittally. His craggy features did not move, except for his huge red eyes flitting about in their sockets, taking in every detail of the bar. Sizing up foes, Tali imagined. She wondered if beneath his calm exterior Wrex was as worried and angry as she was and immediately decided she hoped he wasn't – she had half a mind to start a barfight herself, if only to take her mind off of things, and she didn't weigh seven hundred pounds. Who knew what kind of damage a bereaved krogan could do?

Luckily, if Wrex was holding back despair he was doing a very good job of it. Eventually his drink arrived and his eyes stopped their relentless scanning. A drink sized to a krogan was a great bucket of liquid, almost a sink to Tali, but still it disappeared down Wrex's maw without delay. Only once the last few drops were gone and he'd set his empty tankard aside did one of his eyes roll down to gaze at her again.

"Survived your rite," he observed. It took Tali a moment to realize that he meant her Pilgrimage. She did not bother explaining that quarian 'rites' did not involve the same sort of violence as krogan rites did. Something told her it was Wrex's best approximation of a compliment; and if Wrex was handing out compliments, he really _was_ broken up.

"Yes. I am Tali'Zorah vas Neema now," she said, trying to sound proud. Wrex nodded his approval. "How have you been?" In answer, the krogan shrugged again and squeezed his way out of the booth, apparently having had his fill of small talk already.

"Alive," he confirmed, plodding towards the exit. "Come on."

Tali did not bother to argue, and simply fell in tow behind the krogan as he worked his way towards the Alliance-held lower decks. She didn't know if the guards would be any more forthcoming with Wrex than they'd been with her, though they might be more inclined to talk if they thought they were about to be smashed into a fine paste. Mostly it felt good to be doing something, not just listening for a ship that would never come. She stuck close behind Wrex, letting him clear a path through the throngs. The station was crowded – more so than usual – ever since the Alliance had commandeered parts of the lower decks, and more than a few displaced miners squatted in hallways, playing cards or sleeping on makeshift beds. Tali could not help but notice the angry undercurrents everywhere they went. The Alliance was not doing much to improve its already-rocky reputation among humans out on the fringe.

Wrex didn't seem to need any guidance to reach the lower decks (Tali wondered if he'd been on this station before) and before long they found themselves in a dirty steel hallway, empty except for two Alliance marines. The hustle and bustle of the upper decks was gone, replaced with a tomb-like stillness. From somewhere past the far end of the hall, soft, electronic voices spoke, too quietly for even Tali to make out any of the words.

Wrex plodded up to the marines without hesitation, stopping only when they stepped into his path.

"Excuse me sir," one of them said with an authoritative voice, "but the lower decks are off-limits." He stared at Wrex, his bravery looking almost comical in the krogan's shadow. Wrex just stared back as if the marine was something he'd just scraped off of his boot. He leaned into the marine's space, mere inches away, the challenge clear. To his credit, the marine did not back down.

"We want to see Shepard," Tali spoke up, hoping to defuse the situation.

"The lower decks are off-limits," the marine repeated, and stood firm. He was young, brave, and devoted, an ideal soldier, and Tali could not help but respect him. He was also, however, going to get himself killed. Tali could almost feel Wrex's incoming attack, and looked pleadingly at the second marine. Obviously Wrex could swat the two men like insects and Tali had no wish to see that happen. Luckily, the second marine seemed to agree.

"Let's just let them through, Will," he said, lowering his weapon. "They obviously know what's going on already, and Anderson said they might show up." Wrex's face split into a victorious smirk as he stared down the first marine who, after a few more defiant seconds, nodded and stepped aside without a word.

"Thought so," Wrex snorted, and continued down the hall like nothing had happened.

They walked. The voices coming from the end of the hall grew louder as they neared, resolving into words. Human voices – sad ones – speaking through some kind of communicator. Words about death, about loss, about unmet potential. Words about Shepard. Tali felt the tears reappear in her eyes as they met a windowed alcove. Garrus was slumped atop a nearby bulkhead, the omnitool on one fist glowing as he listened to the eulogy.

"Tali. Wrex," he said, nodding as they approached, but Tali said nothing, too lost in what she was hearing. She walked past the turian to a narrow window into a small hangar bay, where a dozen or so uniformed humans stood at solemn attention, listening to a dark-skinned man speak.

"Shepard was an uncomplicated man," the voice from Garrus' omnitool was saying behind her. The silent Anderson below her gestured to the frontmost of two dozen unremarkable metal coffins. It bore a single red stripe to differentiate it from the others, but otherwise looked wholly antiseptic. Nothing at all to indicate that it held the remains of a hero. "Uncompromisingly moral, uncompromisingly driven," Anderson said, standing ramrod straight at the podium. "He was stubborn. Rash, even, sometimes. But he believed in himself and those around him. The consummate soldier, loyal to a fault. There for the Alliance. There for the Council. There for the galaxy. In many ways Shepard was the best humanity had to offer. In others, the best anyone had to offer. I count myself lucky to have known him." It went on. Tali felt the moisture on her face begin to fog her helmet. Her dehumidifiers clicked up another notch.

"So it's true, then," she managed, voice cracking. She turned and looked for the first time at Garrus. He looked terrible – mandibles drooping, eyes bleary – like he hadn't slept in days. The ghost of a blue/black bruise graced one of his plated cheeks.

"It's true," he confirmed quietly, turning off the eulogy. "The last of the escape pods was recovered today." He stared solemnly into the floor for a long moment, and Tali knew he was feeling the same soul-crushing finality she was. "He's gone. Alliance troops have been scouring the system for days. Nothing. No traces at all." Tali turned back to look down at the funeral, her eyes brimming. Anderson was placing something small and metallic atop Shepard's empty casket, before standing solidly next to Liara and an ornery-looking Joker.

"How?"

"Wish I knew. I was working on the Mako's undercarriage when the ship started shaking; damn thing nearly fell on me. Some kind of cruiser hit us, but apparently not one in anybody's records. Tore through the Normandy like paper. Didn't stand a chance. Then it just disappeared." Garrus stopped, flexing his jaws in agitation. Tali could hear his pent-up sadness and anger trying to break free. Garrus had always had something of a temper, even if he kept himself on a short leash. Without Shepard that leash was already fraying. Tali rested a gentle hand atop his armor-clad knee, trying to project a confidence she didn't feel.

"Alliance was on the scene in a few hours," Garrus continued. "Me and the other survivors spent the night in a cold hangar bay while they decided what to do with us."

"What do you mean?"

"_Council officials_ have decided to keep this a secret," Garrus said, his tone of voice making it abundantly clear what he thought about the decision. "They don't want anybody to know their champion went down, especially when their heads are so far up their asses they can't even figure out how it happened. So they shipped us here. Citadel, C-Sec, Alliance, they're all here. Trying to contain the mess."

"That's…"

"It's crap is what it is," Garrus interrupted, eyes flaring to life. "Shepard gave them everything and _this_ is how they repay him. Lay him to rest in a damn mining station, surrounded by politicians who are only worried about how his death will reflect on _them_." Tali looked at him, shocked by his outburst. She had never seen Garrus so angry. At her glance, Garrus stared ashamedly into the wall, chest heaving as he fought to calm himself. "They're going to throw it all away," he said after he'd regained control. "Undo all he did. All of it. Half of the crew has already been reassigned and shipped away. The Council is going to use this as an excuse to ignore the Reapers. Ungrateful bastards." Tali frowned down at the mourners below her. They were few in number, just a handful of privileged Alliance officers and council representatives, only those who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut as long as possible. Of Shepard's loyal crew, only Joker and Liara were present.

It didn't seem right. Shepard deserved more than a cold reception like this, more than a formality. Half of the galaxy should have been there to pay their respects and celebrate all he'd done for them. But instead he was being shoved into obscurity, his victories already forgotten.

"_They_ should be in those coffins," Garrus muttered darkly, shaking his head in disgust. Behind them, Wrex chuckled, the first noise he'd made in ten minutes.

"So let's go down there and do some rearranging," he rumbled, shotgun in hand. Tali couldn't help but frown at his cavalier attitude.

"Shepard wouldn't have wanted this," she said, gesturing towards the window, "but do you really think he'd want you turning his funeral into a battlefield?"

"Yes," Wrex said simply. Aghast, Tali looked to Garrus for help.

"Don't bother causing trouble Wrex," the turian said, not bothering to lift his gaze from the floor. Tali couldn't help but notice that he did not explicitly disagree with Wrex. "The decision is made, apparently." Wrex rumbled with laughter again.

"That how you got the eye?" he asked, pointing to Garrus' bruise.

"I… may have come to a… disagreement with one of the citadel representatives," Garrus admitted. "Otherwise I would be down there."

"Ha!" Wrex barked approvingly. "Kicked out of a funeral for fighting. There's hope for you yet, C-Sec." He turned down the hall. "Come on, Tali. Our turn."

"I… No," she stammered. "That thing down there isn't Shepard."

"No, it's not," Wrex agreed, turning to look at her. "Even if he _was_ dead, Shepard wouldn't lie around in a box. That man will die on his feet." Wrex's stare was dead serious in its denial, and Tali felt her heart break all over again for the krogan. He looked as scaly and heartless as ever, but inside he wasn't even willing to consider that his adopted warlord had fallen while he wasn't there.

"Wrex," she said quietly, "Shepard is dead." Wrex just shrugged.

"We'll see," he grunted, plodding away.

–

Tali and Garrus sat in the alcove pretending to listen to the funeral proceedings. Tali was too deep in thought to even hear Wrex kick Shepard's coffin across the room.

It didn't matter. Shepard was dead. His ship was gone and him along with it. Along with all the good things he'd tried to accomplish. Not since the death of her mother had the galaxy felt so small and dark. Tali's tears fell freely and she let them, ignoring the gurgle of her overworked dehumidifiers. Her brain scrambled to make sense of it all, to find a way to rationalize Shepard's loss. He had been a mentor to her. A surrogate father, a bastion of protection against the rest of the galaxy. A friend. It hurt Tali now to remember thinking of Shepard as perhaps someday being even more. Her crush had been foolish – he wasn't even the same species – and yet he was loyal, brave, and kind. And now he was dead and the galaxy had forgotten him.

"We won't let it happen," she said firmly, breaking the silence. Behind her, Garrus arched a plated brow. "He was our friend. We won't let his death mean nothing." Exactly how they would go about doing that, she did not know, but it was all she could come up with so far. She turned and looked to Garrus for support. The turian's face was grim as he rose to his feet, shouldering his sniper rifle. Suddenly Tali pitied very much whoever next ended up on the receiving end of Garrus' gaze. All the same, he tenderly set a hand atop her shoulder.

"No," he agreed. "No we won't."

–

* * *

**Codex entry: ICEA Felsingar Lo-Orbital Platform (Canary station)**

A common sight throughout human occupied space, the Felsingar platform has represented one of the most widespread space station geometries for over two decades. Originally developed by the Earth-based ICEA corporation, the Felsingar has gained a reputation as one of history's most dangerous, haphazardly-constructed engineering failures.

Shortly after first contact, human interest in deep space colonization skyrocketed. Believing that humanity had to make as big a foothold in the galaxy as quickly as possible to compete with alien species, many Earth governments offered lucrative incentives to humans and companies willing to advance colonial interests. Millions of colonists took the opportunity to trade their overcrowded former lives on Earth for fresh starts on unsettled worlds. Despite ready availability of alien technology, billions of dollars in government contracts were given to companies to develop new space equipment. Expansion of a galactic human industry was considered paramount to avoid dependence on extraterrestrial states. ICEA, a Swedish engineering firm, was tasked with designing a cheap, modular, low-altitude space station that could be assembled and moved easily, allowing temporary housing for colonists and equipment before they could be shipped to a planet surface. ICEA's engineers managed to meet the short deadline with their now infamous Felsingar platform.

In its standard configuration, the Felsingar is a dumbbell-shaped craft approximately 800 meters long. Much of its volume is occupied by large modular bays, which can be modified to contain lodgings, heavy loading facilities, or landing bays for small spacecraft. While cheap to produce and assemble, the Felsingar was plagued from the beginning with severe maintenance issues. Most notably, the positioning of its mass effect generators at one pole made for an inefficient design, leading to increased power draw and occasional catastrophic blackouts. Even well-maintained Felsingar platforms typically need their mass effect generators replaced every four to six years to avoid the risk of falling out of orbit. Despite the design flaws, human companies ordered the construction of thousands of Felsingars and spread them throughout the galaxy to act as trade hubs, orbital Ellis Islands, or even corporate headquarters.

ICEA's success was short lived, however, after several of the platforms failed and crashed into their respective planets. Relatives of colonists killed in the well-publicized accidents filed criminal charges of negligence, and, buried under bad press and litigation, ICEA folded quickly.

While the Felsingar is now discontinued, hundreds of the platforms still remain, having been auctioned off to mining companies or privateers for rock-bottom prices. Human miners coined the Felsingar's modern nickname, the Canary station, in reference to its mass effect generator issues – a weakening of the station's artificial gravity was considered the canary in the mine shaft, warning miners that it was time to move on and find a new job.

–

* * *

**A/N:** So... First fanfiction in a long time. I intend this story to be a series of one-shots that weave in and out of the main ME2 plot, focusing particularly on what I consider to be lesser used characters. I will try to be faithful to the ME2 plot for the most part, though I may make minor continuity changes here and there (for instance, some of the dialog in the game implies that Tali was aboard the Normandy when it went down. I prefer to think she and Wrex had left by that point, but that Garrus, Liara, and Kaidan had stayed on.) I will try to work in larger plotlines amidst my disjointed oneshots, but not sure how well that'll go. As for shipping, if it shows up at all it will mostly be Tali/Shepard. That said, I'm not really that big on writing romance so it'll be secondary.

I have so much fun writing stuff like the codex entry - I think I'll come up with one for each chapter. It's boring and dry, I know, but I enjoy coming up with it. I have to fight tooth and nail to make my general story not come across like a textbook, so I figure I deserve a little dry nerdery at the end.

Anyway, stay tuned for chapter 2. And please don't hesitate to offer criticism (or even effusive praise, I'm cool with that too). I'm also open to suggestion for characters/scenes to explore.


	2. Chapter 2, The Lazarus Project, Wilson

**The Lazarus Project – Wilson**

* * *

_6 days, 5 hours after subject brain death_

–

Just seven hours after saying 'yes', and Dr. Eric Wilson was _Operative_ Wilson. The speed boggled his mind as he stared blankly at his new life. Hard to believe it was only that morning he had been in his office at the Nuredin company headquarters, nursing a cup of cheap coffee and trying to pull order out of the week's data for less money than some doctors made fresh out of school.

But look at him now. Half a galaxy away in a med lab on a secret space station. _His_ lab. His mouth hung open as he let his fingers trace over the sleek surface of a cutting-edge HEMRI imaging station worth more than his entire Nuredin lab put together. Brand new. The sort of technology only found at the largest government-owned laboratories, the sort of technology that always had a two-year waiting list to use. And he had one of his own. The rest of the lab was the same – no expense had been spared. None. Wilson felt like a God among scientists.

"Eric," a voice said, snapping Wilson out of his reverie. He turned. A young, dark-skinned man, armored from head to toe, held out a friendly hand. He smiled disarmingly, revealing straight white teeth.

"Wilson, please," Wilson corrected, shaking the proffered hand.

"Of course Doctor. I'm Jacob. I'm the project's head of security, but at the moment I'm here to make sure you have everything you need." Wilson raised his brow and looked back at the humming array of equipment already in place. Smartly-dressed Cerberus workmen were still carting more of it in, installing each piece with an almost robotic efficiency.

"I'm… not sure," Wilson admitted. "It is going to take me some time to get a proper accounting of the lab setup."

"With all due respect," Jacob said, voice serious, "we would like you to begin immediately. The subject will be arriving in a matter of hours."

"Yes, of course," Wilson agreed, eying the chief of security warily. Jacob looked official, but Wilson had little doubt he was only a message-boy for the real powers behind the project. And a spy, probably. Normally Wilson would never hazard a guess aloud before he had all the information he needed ('brainstorming' in public was an occupational hazard when one was an industrial scientist – you never knew when your words would be misinterpreted by the less scientifically-inclined), but he decided he'd try to give Jacob something official-sounding to bring to his superiors. He put on his best scientist face.

"Getting the patient to a state of total senescence as quickly as possible is critical to mitigating cellular damage," he said seriously. "If your superiors have any hopes of recovering the subject's mind, they will not drag their feet." Jacob nodded. Wilson scanned the room out of the corner of his eye until he'd come up with a piece of equipment Cerberus hadn't thought of. It wasn't easy. "I am going to need low-latency snap-freeze cryo equipment. Bigger than the ones here. Two chambers, at least, big enough to freeze a krogan. Big enough for me to work inside of the chamber if need be. SMI Med-tech manufactures a suitable model."

"You'll get it," Jacob promised without hesitation, typing the order into a datapad.

He did get it. It took less than an hour.

* * *

_8 days, 1 hour after subject brain death_

–

Wilson rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he flipped to yet another scan. Shepard's damage was extensive, worse than his contact had indicated when he'd been offered the job. A normal doctor might have been petrified by the sheer magnitude of what was being asked, but Wilson was not a normal doctor, and that was why Cerberus had chosen him above any other. He'd made a career out of pulling patients through the deadliest, riskiest operations known to medical science – he was not a squeamish man. He tirelessly went down the list, noting each scar, each fracture, and making a plan.

He'd worked almost nonstop since Shepard's arrival. The man had arrived frozen in an insulated medical chamber, and Wilson had wasted no time in getting him as stably preserved as possible. He'd thawed the body just long enough to take a few key tissue samples before snap freezing again, flooding Shepard's body with a supercooled fluid spray too quickly for dangerous ice crystals to form. Now, technicians carefully operated on the blue-tinged human popsicle that was the former Commander Shepard, drilling through rock-hard flesh, inserting tubes, walling off nonessential body parts. The technicians were quiet and competent and followed Wilson's orders without question, freeing him up to think.

It was no small job, even for him. He was one of the galaxy's foremost experts on the cellular mechanisms of death and on controlling reperfusion injuries, but it was by no means an exact science. A single mistake was all it would take. Wilson had paid for his rare expertise with many failures, working with Conatix to develop the first human biotic implants. These days the attachment surgery was routine, no more dangerous than any other, but back then, when the groundwork was being laid, most biotics never left the table. There had been no guide to follow – even if Conatix _had_ been inclined to ask experts like the asari, human brain structure was simply different than the blue-skinned aliens, however alike the two species' faces might have been. It had taken a great deal of trial and error to even reach the most rudimentary success, and even then Conatix had pushed on. Amps were implanted deeper and deeper into the brain, and each procedure they tried carried a greater risk that they might nick something critical and leave the patient mentally crippled or dead. Wilson had lost count of how many patients had died on one of his operating tables.

But Wilson was at the head of a growing field of doctors who understood death was not the end of the game. With the proper equipment death could be seen as just another illness to be understood and fixed. Preparations could be made before high-risk operations to neuter death before it happened. Load the brain with cocktails of sugary preservatives and senescence signals. Only cut at low temperatures, in low oxygen environments. Drug regimens and immunosuppressants to shut off reperfusion mechanisms. There were a dozen little steps to be taken, and Wilson had had ample opportunity to find them all. It had taken time, but once he'd arrived at a standard process, it had become a simple matter – patients who died during surgery could be calmly resuscitated up to twenty minutes later with relatively little permanent damage, giving him ample time to finish the implantation without the chaos that usually followed a flatlined ECG. To Wilson, the brain was a beautiful, glorious machine to be broken and fixed. Controllable. Understandable. Science at its purest.

Wilson had killed hundreds in his lifetime. And Wilson had brought hundreds back.

Still, nothing of this scale had ever been attempted before. Shepard had been dead for over a week now. Shredded by an explosion and suffocated in the vacuum of space, not merely nicked somewhere in the brain. Even though Shepard's body had frozen in space, preventing a great deal of cellular dieoff, there was a chance his injuries were simply to severe for repair. And Conatix hadn't cared if the biotics forgot their parents' faces, or algebra, or anything else, so long as they were fit to reenter the program after implantation. Cerberus cared. Wilson would have one shot.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and kept reading.

* * *

_10 days, 8 hours after subject brain death_

–

He did not meet Miranda until his fourth day on the job, during the middle of an operation. Wilson sat, engrossed in a console display as high-precision surgical robots drilled at the exterior of Shepard's frozen brain. The machines were better surgeons than organics could ever hope to be, but they still made mistakes, and it was important that they be supervised. Luckily, Miranda did not intrude, and simply took a seat at the far end of the lab. Wilson could feel her prickling gaze on his back through the rest of the procedure, and he was greatly relieved when the robots had finally finished and folded back up into the ceiling.

He stood, pretending to stretch his neck as he got a better look at her. She was, needless to say, the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever seen, a fact which put him immediately on guard. Wilson was not a rich man, but he had been well-off enough working for Conatix and, later, Nuredin. He had fallen for spoiled, vacuous women with pretty faces in the past. It was an expensive mistake, and one he did not intend to repeat. Still, no reason to be uncivil.

"Operative Lawson," he said finally, approaching and offering his hand.

"Operative Wilson," she said (almost bored), and rose to her feet. She ignored his outstretched hand and walked past him to stare at Shepard's frozen remains through the window. Wilson frowned at the slight but said nothing. "I apologize for my absence," she said. "In the future I will be overseeing your work more closely, but I understand speed is essential in these early steps. I trust you will do your best until I am ready to supervise." Wilson's frown deepened at her condescending tone.

"Right… Where did you attend medical school?" he asked.

"I didn't," she replied immediately. Wilson frowned. This woman presumed to tell him what to do without even having gone to school? He was going to be 'supervised' by some spoilt rich girl who thought she understood processes that had taken him years to master? Apparently intuiting his reservations, Miranda turned and fixed Wilson with a disapproving gaze.

"That is why you're here, Operative Wilson," she said testily. "I am _not_ a medical expert… yet. Our benefactor is expecting you to know what to do until I am." She turned back to Shepard, all business again. "What are your thoughts on Shepard's condition? Can he be saved?"

Wilson mouthed dumbly for a moment, still trying to piece together the last thing she'd said. She wasn't a medical expert _yet?_ "So… what?" he asked after a moment, "you're just going to read medical journals until you think you're ready to boss me around?"

"Answer my question." He frowned again.

"What do _you_ think? What does your _reading_ tell you so far?" he asked, well aware he was treading on thin ice but feeling too petulant to hold his tongue. Miranda sighed.

"I would be inclined to suppose it was too late." She pointed to some of the scans Wilson had hung on the walls, which showed Shepard's shattered skeleton, collapsed lungs, and more. "His injuries are too severe. Though I have been focusing on basic anatomy so far, I _have_ read your work on resuscitation after brain-death, and none of your successes had been in such a critical state."

"Irrelevant," Wilson insisted, feeling immensely relieved to have caught her in a mistake already. "Superficial injuries, the lot of them. Vast cellular degeneration is a problem, but not insurmountable. Shepard _is_ salvageable," he promised her. "His body, anyway. We can replace most of it with cloned tissue or cybernetics when we're good and ready."

"It appears I have some more reading to do," she said calmly.

"The real problem," Wilson insisted, tapping on a scan of Shepard's skull, "is right here. As long as he's frozen he's more or less preserved, but as soon as we thaw and start cutting, we're going to start losing things. Memories, skills. Even mental capacity. We've been careful, and we got him loaded with channel blockers, but when Shepard wakes up, he isn't going to be Shepard." He turned to grin smugly at her unsatisfied face.

"That is unacceptable. Our benefactor was clear, he wants Shepard back as he was."

"It isn't going to happen," Wilson said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. Talking to non-scientists always gave him a headache. "It's impossible."

"How much would it cost to bring him back perfectly?"

"It isn't a matter of cost," Wilson insisted. "It's a matter of possessing equipment that doesn't exist! It's a matter of basic biology!"

"How. Much. Would. It. Cost?" Miranda repeated, as if she were talking to a particularly dull child. Wilson sat down and massaged his temples.

"I'll humor you," he said. She waited patiently for him to continue. "Memories, mental activity, everything going on in the brain. It's all membrane voltages," he explained, not looking at her. "We keep Shepard _entirely_ frozen, those voltages stay where they are. We thaw him, they equilibrate and go away. Nanosurgical techniques exist to put them back if we know what they are supposed to be, but we don't. We don't even know how much they've equilibrated already. We want a _chance_ of restoring his mind, we'd need a way to measure all those miniscule voltages before we even started cutting. Billions of them. And we'd have to do it all at once, without unfreezing him. But the R and D needed to make an instrument like that… Who knows what'd it'd cost? Half a billion credits?"

Miranda looked contemplative for a moment. Wilson just watched her. It was funny how much less pretty she looked already. "There are things you can do without touching the brain?" she asked eventually.

"Lots," Wilson confirmed. "But again. It'll take time but it's kid's stuff with this kind of equipment. We fix circulation and detox problems first, then once we turn him back on and have him on full level life support, fixing his body is just tightening up the bolts until it can fix itself. Spinal cord is probably shot – we'll grow him a new one. Half of these things can just be replaced, if we wanted. The brain's the hard part."

"Get to work, then. Leave the brain alone for now." She started to walk away. God, she even looked condescending from behind. Wilson looked away, listening to the retreating click of her heels. She stopped. "Oh, and Wilson?" she said, her voice full of false sweetness. "Don't talk back to me again. I'm in charge, not you."

* * *

_101 days, 17 hours after subject brain death_

–

Luckily he did not see Miranda for some time after that. Unluckily, it was four in the morning (or what counted for morning on a deep-orbit space station) when she finally returned. He was awakened by one of the lab techs.

"Operative Wilson, there's something you should see," her voice was worried.

Wilson glanced impatiently at the little digital clock on his beside shelf. "He's dead," he grunted, batting her away. "He'll still be dead in the morning. I'll see to it then."

"Operative Lawson has returned with some new equipment. She's doing something to Shepard's head right now." Wilson swore and tossed aside the covers, his opinion of Miranda bottoming out. In charge or not, he was _not_ going to let some untrained daddy's girl wreck _his _project with hands that had never done anything harder than apply makeup evenly. He had gone to bed in his work clothes and so rushed right out the door, the worried technician in tow. He stormed into the labs, red-faced and furious.

"What's going on?" he demanded, forgetting her warning the last time they'd met. He marched up to the glass window that separated Shepard's clean-chamber from the bulk of the analytical equipment. Miranda stood behind Shepard's head, clad head-to-toe in baggy yellow plastic. She gave him a cocky grin from behind her mask.

"Operative Wilson," she said. "I was hoping you would finish your beauty sleep and join me."

"What are you doing?" he asked desperately. "Are you sterile?" She frowned.

"Of course. I'm not stupid." She pointed to a shoulder-tall steel box she had wheeled into Shepard's room. Buttons and panels glittered on its front surface. Wilson did not recognize the machine's function, even when Miranda pushed it behind Shepard and pulled a cylindrical dish on a levered arm down over his scarred face.

"What is it?" Wilson asked, rolling up his sleeves and heading for the sink. Miranda's movements were practiced and careful – at a glance he might have mistaken her for a second-year surgical student – but he still wasn't going to trust her not to mess up all he'd done so far. You didn't become a surgeon by reading, you just didn't. It was impossible.

"Your scanner. Our engineers call it PIT." She leaned back and pressed a series of buttons with mechanical precision. PIT started to emit a noisy hum as it roused. "It generates microscopic mass effect field pairs randomly inside a predefined matrix," she explained, raising her voice to be heard over the machine. "The polarity of the interference field generated between each pair allows it to calculate the voltage between them. Calculate for a few billion fields over the course of a few minutes and we get your voltage map."

Hands washed, Wilson pulled his clean suit on and thrust the helmet over his head until the seals engaged with a sharp snap. "You're kidding me." He couldn't believe his ears. PIT's humming was drowned out as he stepped into the cleanser and it obligingly doused him in streams of harsh, fast-drying antiseptic.

"I am most assuredly _not_ kidding," Miranda assured him as he stepped into the clean room, the last of the antiseptic fumes still roiling off of his shoulders. She turned the monitor atop her spectacular scanner for him to see – a beautiful 3d image of Shepard's brain was assembling itself as each point was calculated and added, one by one.

"The resolution?" he asked, his jealousy and anger momentarily forgotten behind rapt curiosity.

"Nanometer scale." The dots continued to appear, color-coded to indicate voltage. Wilson's jaw hung open as he zoomed in the image until he could see the rough silhouettes of individual cells being traced out.

"No adverse effects?" Miranda shook her head.

"Extensively tested. This version has no adverse reactions, physical or psychological, in any human control group." PIT gave a satisfied beep and the scanning dish over Shepard's head retracted. The image was done. Wilson mouthed dumbly, searching for the words. "Impressive, I know," Miranda supplied, smiling smugly. Wilson nodded.

_Son of a bitch..._

_

* * *

_

_344 days, 4 hours after subject brain death_

–

"I swear, she's out to get me," Wilson groaned, rubbing his face with the heel of one hand. "She's gonna kill me someday, I just know it." Across the table from him, Jacob laughed. They were sitting in the station's small mess hall eating lunch. Normally Wilson ate alone at his desk before getting back to work, but today Miranda had, in one of her increasingly-frequent paranoid tantrums, kicked everyone else out of the lab so she could work on Shepard alone.

"You'll be alright," Jacob promised, biting into some kind of freeze-dried bar.

Work under Miranda was exhausting. What she lacked in medical expertise (a lack which was shrinking every day) she made up for in drive. She kept Wilson and the medical techs working like a well-oiled machine, all the while juggling her other work for Cerberus and the reams and reams of medical texts she managed to go through every week. Wilson began to wonder if the woman ever slept.

At first he'd doubted her – it hurt his pride to think that anyone, however smart, could skip right past medical school and two decades of experience just by reading – and yet Miranda seemed to think she had done just that. Soon she started overruling his decisions, infrequently at first, then more and more.

The worst part was that he couldn't fault her. He wanted to believe that her ill-gotten knowledge would just be somehow inferior to his own (all the more so when Jacob let it slip that she'd been genetically engineered _in utero_), and yet each time they argued, each time she overruled him and chose some treatment over his, he found himself begrudgingly coming to agree with her. He would stay up late trying to find some flaw in her reasoning, but it always eluded him. He was wrong, she was right. She was... better than him. She was smart, beautiful, talented, driven. Perfect. And no matter how he tried, Wilson couldn't seem to get her out of his mind. It was keeping him in a very bad mood.

"I guess so," he admitted. "Maybe I'm just tired. Been at it a whole year."

"You'll get there," Jacob said with his usual optimism. Wilson couldn't help but smirk. He took a bite of his own meal, chewing thoughtfully.

"Know what I need?" Wilson asked after a moment, "A break. Go back home. See the family. Spend time with people who don't have ice in their veins, dead or otherwise." If Jacob appreciated the joke, he didn't show it. His face was suddenly serious as he set down his food.

"I can't let you do that, Wilson."

"I can't have a day off? Damn, Jacob, I've been at this eighteen hours a day for a year now!"

"The project isn't done," Jacob said quietly, averting his eyes. "You can't leave the station. I'm one of only four people on this station with clearance to leave. Everyone else, I gotto keep here." His head bowed in shame. "I'm sorry Wilson. Those are my orders."

"Wonderful," Wilson said sarcastically. "I'm a goddamn medical slave. Thanks for nothing."

"You think I like it?" Jacob asked, suddenly on the defensive. "What I do? What we're doing here?" he gestured loosely towards the lab. "I don't. I'm not a religious man, Wilson, so I don't want to say we're playing God. But we are. The rules around here… they change us. And not for the better. Some of the things I've had to do to get all that equipment for you…" He paused, searching for the words to continue. "Mostly it's just shipping and handling, but sometimes the stuff you ask for is proprietary, or not available. And I gotto be _persuasive_." Wilson had to admit that Jacob looked like he could be a very persuasive man if he wanted, but at the moment he just looked disgusted with himself. "I don't like it," Jacob continued, "but I believe it's for the greater good. So long as I believe that, I'm following my orders. And that means you're staying on the station until the project's done. Case closed."

Wilson scoffed. "Get off your soap box, Jacob. You really think this is about the greater good? This is about God not being cool enough to make people live forever, and us having to pick up the slack. This is about doing what has _never been done before._" Jacob just frowned.

"Lots of things are never done, and there's a reason," Jacob insisted, crossing his arms across his barrel chest. "We aren't doing this to prove anything," he insisted, "we're doing it because it's in humanity's best interests. It's the right thing to do."

"We're doing it because we _can," _Wilson protested. "We're doing it because it's _amazing_. How can that not move you? We are part of the greatest medical endeavor in mankind's history, Jacob! We are bringing a dead man back to life!"

"Do you even know who he was?" Jacob asked seriously. "Do you even know why they've given you all the money to bring this man back?"

Wilson waved his hand dismissively. "He's Shepard. Some kind of Alliance hero. I don't know the specifics. He's dead right now but soon he won't be. Good enough."

"Do you even know his first name?"

"No, and I don't care. I know he's one hundred-eighty-one centimeters tall. I know he weighed a hundred-ten kilos when he died. I know he has O-neg blood type. I know he has a family history of arthritis and some minor dementia on his mother's side. Hand me a barrel full of spleens and I could probably pick his out through smell alone. I know _everything_ there is to know about Shepard, believe me." Jacob just shook his head, unconvinced.

"If you did, you'd know Commander _John_ Shepard was a person, and that he's important. He isn't a pile of numbers and measurements. When you're done, he's going to be _alive_ again, and he's going to go back to bat for us all. _That_ is why we're here."

The two men fell silent as they heard Miranda's voice call for Wilson over the intercom. She sounded angry. As usual.

Wilson stood up. "Alright, Jacob. That can be why you're here. But _I'm_ here because I want to be." It was true, Wilson realized. As bitchy as Miranda was, as emasculated as he made him feel on a regular basis, he _wanted_ to be here. It really _was _beautiful, what they were doing. Jacob nodded his reluctant acceptance as Wilson picked up his tray and walked away, spirits lighter than they'd been in weeks.

"Hey Wilson?" Jacob called out as he was leaving the cafeteria. He stopped and turned. "If you want a message delivered to somebody offworld or something, I'd be happy to do it next time I leave the station." He smiled genuinely.

"Nah, forget it," Wilson said, waving an arm. "I gotto get back to work."

* * *

_598 days, 6 hours after subject brain death_

–

Wilson had hoped, in the weeks and months leading up to it, that the day they finally turned Shepard back on would mark the beginning of the end, would mark a relaxation in their feverish laboring and in Miranda's omnipresent anger. They'd spent eighteen months with Shepard frozen and very much dead while they worked feverishly to put him back together. Organ systems would be injected with activators and allowed to thaw and operate only periodically, for specific purposes, and once they were in order they'd usually be carefully shut down again, just to be safe. Shepard was dead, and as long as he was dead, he wasn't getting any worse.

Still, eventually they had to let things take care of themselves. Tissue grafts, organ transplants, cybernetics, all had made great strides in the past century, but when it came to the beautifully complicated fine-tuning that went into a homeostatic organism, no doctor even came close to the body's own natural healing mechanisms. There were limits to what the Cerberus doctors could notice and fix on their own.

Tens of thousands of man hours had already gone into Shepard when the day came to put the first sparks of life back into the late Commander. Miranda had run them through dozens of practice runs on cadavers and computer models and animals, hell-bent on making sure every detail was right. Each system had to be brought back properly synchronized with the others. Blood contents had to be stringently adjusted, eased back to their regular concentrations, not just flooded back all at once. Stress hormones had to be managed. More pedestrian medical precautions that their patient's uncommon condition had allowed them to ignore up to that point had to be reinstated. It was miserable, complicated work, compounded by Miranda's fiery temper, and yet the staff had been excited. It was their first milestone – where before they had been working on a corpse, soon they would be working on a man.

It had gone well. Each doctor had performed his job perfectly, and Shepard's systems went online without a hitch. There were no major hemorrhages or overblown immune reactions, liver enzymes were largely in the normal range, blood flow was as good as could be expected, cybernetics had interfaced properly. Shepard had been a healthy ox of a man in life, and his body showed it, taking to each treatment better than any patient Wilson had ever seen. By the end of the day, while still not 'alive' in the strictest sense, Shepard was running on little more life support than the average coma patient. It was cause to celebrate. They had already done the impossible.

Still, Miranda was unsatisfied. Scans showed the pain centers of Shepard's brain exploding with color, as the thousands of surgeries caught up to the man's reawakened nervous system. It was an inevitable side effect, as far as Wilson was concerned (Conatix had not instilled in him much concern for patients' pain), and yet Miranda had been furious. She blamed the staff, claimed they had been clumsy and damaged Shepard during the reawakening process. She threw an absolute fit, shouting about how the pain might shatter Shepard's mind before it even got on its feet, and despite Wilson's best efforts to reason with her, tossed everyone out of the lab again.

Wilson and the other doctors had taken up post just outside the door with their unopened bottles of champagne, waiting anxiously in case Miranda called for their aid. She never did. The sounds of her working had continued deep into the night.

* * *

_679 days, 11 hours after patient brain death_

–

Miranda let out a sigh. It wasn't a particularly _loud_ sigh – Wilson doubted she even knew she'd done it herself – but the sign of weariness was so out of her character that he couldn't help but look up from his work. She was seated at Shepard's feet, an ignored clipboard in her hand as she stared vacantly at the ECG monitor's rhythmic beeping.

Wilson didn't know what to say. He knew Miranda was arrogant, and if he asked her what was wrong she would be on the defensive in a millisecond. But still – the sight of her distraction was mesmerizing. It was so unusual. It was like the picture of the five-legged fetuses in one of his textbooks back in school, the picture he'd torn out and kept in one of his binders just so he could take it out whenever classes threatened to overwhelm him and revel in the sheer, beautiful strangeness of it. Miranda sighing, like a multi-limbed fetus, just seemed so inherently wrong that his scientist's mind could not let it go. He tried to broach the subject tactfully.

"Shepard's eyes look good," he said. "The corneal grafts have integrated right and he's already showing some pupillary reflex." It was good news – Shepard's nerves were interfacing with his cybernetic implants, a process that often took considerable trial and error even in healthy patients. Shepard's eerie red eyes rolled back and forth frantically in their sockets, very much alive.

"Good," Miranda said, returning to her clipboard. Wilson frowned.

"I can't imagine it'll be too long before we can start some larger scale brain stimulations," he offered hopefully. "This bastard will live yet." Miranda did not look excited at the prospect. She did, however, finally look at him and turn her clipboard so he could see it.

"This morning's scans," she explained dourly. "More noise. AP tracings aren't taking. More lost brain function. We're up to a confirmed 7% loss already."

"So what?" Wilson asked, shrugging. "So he's 93% Shepard. Way I hear it, 93% Shepard is still quite a guy. He could get away with saving 93% of the council – salarians regenerate, don't they?"

"He has to be perfect," she said quietly, more to herself than to Wilson. "That's why we're here. To restore Shepard just the way he was. Anything less is pointless."

Wilson slapped his scalpel down on the tray with enough force to make Miranda look up in surprise. "Am I the _only_ one here who thinks this is cool!?" he shouted, gesturing at Shepard. "Look at him! He's breathing! He's alive! We brought a man _back to life! _It is NOT pointless! It's _amazing_! I am just gobsmacked how you all can be so goddamn down about this!" He stared at her, eyes wide. "We did the impossible, Miranda! We're the greatest doctors who ever lived!"

"It isn't a contest, Wilson," Miranda said.

"No, it isn't," Wilson agreed, walking around the table. "Because it's already over. This is the greatest medical achievement in our species' history. It doesn't matter now if Shepard comes out a rage-addled retard. He'll have a few pieces missing but he'll be able to shoot a gun. Fill in that 7% with pro-Cerberus propaganda and your Illusive Man can put him at the head of his army or whatever the hell else he wants him for. Or just shoot him and start over, I don't care. But would it kill you to show a little respect for what we've done here!?"

"Shepard was perfect. He is the only one who can save us. Whatever our personal feelings on the matter, we have been instructed to bring him back, exactly the way he was," Miranda said, still in the tone of voice that suggested she was arguing with herself more than Wilson. Wilson's brow raised as an idea occurred.

"You're not worried about meeting him, are you?" he asked. "Worried he'll take your job? Worried that he'll reject you and Cerberus and all this crap to go do something better?" Miranda stared pointedly at him, eyes suddenly filled with fire.

"No!" she protested angrily. Wilson grinned as realization dawned. He remembered what Jacob had told him, about how Miranda had been engineered – the perfect woman, to use Jacob's (admittedly biased) words.

"You're worried he's better than you," he accused, not quite keeping the smile off his face. It was just so delicious seeing Miranda getting a taste of her own medicine, finding out how she made the people around her feel every day. "You don't want to see him wake up and prove he's worth more than you are."

"He _is_ worth more," Miranda said coldly. "My engineering cost seven point four million credits. Almost two million more went into my education. The Lazarus project is now over four billion credits, and still counting." She stared at Shepard's unconscious form, face a practiced, neutral mask. "He _is_ better than me, Operative Wilson," she said quietly. "Otherwise we would not be here. Now if you will leave me, I have work to do."

Wilson walked out of the lab, more or less content for once.

* * *

_700 days, 7 hours after subject brain death_

–

The crack of Jacob's gun echoed off of the station's steel walls like thunder. Each shot was measured, precise. He used his whole body to aim, allowing his bullet's path to flow from his back, down his arms, into the pistol, and finally true center on his target. Every few shots he would calmly eject a heat sink and replace it in the blink of an eye, his aim never wavering. He did not bother to look up when the door opened and Wilson entered the firing range.

"Miranda kick you out again, huh?" he asked. Wilson sighed, rubbing his forehead in his trademarked gesture of frustration.

"Same old same old," he confirmed. "She had to leave the station and she doesn't trust anyone to be in lab without her anymore. Not that it matters – I haven't been allowed in there for a week now. Said I was screwing up the AP synchronies. Wouldn't even tell me _how _I was screwing up. Not sure what she was talking about."

"She's a genius," Jacob said simply, taking aim again. "I gave up knowing what she's talking about a long time ago." He fired five times in rapid succession, neatly striking his target each time. Grinning in satisfaction, he turned to Wilson and held out the pistol. "Wanna try?" he asked, "always helps me work off extra stress." Wilson shrugged and grabbed the pistol.

"Must work wonders," he said, taking aim on the target and doing his best to mimic Jacob's posture. "I don't think I've ever seen you stressed."

"Shoulda seen me this morning," Jacob replied, leaning against the wall. "Spent the last two weeks getting the mechs unboxed and set up. Setting up the security protocols on those LOKI's is a bitch. Only just finished an hour ago, until someone finds _another_ problem." Wilson squinted, took aim, and fired. The shot went wild, cleanly missing the target. He swore under his breath.

"What are the mechs for? We expecting an attack?"

"Extra security," Jacob said. "Miranda's orders. Keep your eyes open and your chin up. Off hand more forward, use that to steady your aim, main hand is there to absorb the recoil. Elbow extended but loose."

"Miranda's getting goddamn paranoid," Wilson grunted, adjusting his posture. He fired again. This shot was closer, and winged the edge of the target.

"Project's almost done," Jacob said with a shrug. "She says she's worried someone might sell us out now that Shepard's almost awake and they know the whole thing wasn't just a pipe dream. Maybe try to kill Shepard or sell him off. Traitors." Wilson's eyes widened and he lowered his aim, turning to stare at the chief of security.

"Who would do that? Who would betray all this work?" he demanded, a terrible thought entering his mind. Miranda had been treating him even worse than usual lately, pushing him farther and farther away from the project. Throwing him out on a whim. What if she thought…?

"Lots of possibilities," Jacob said. "Disgruntled employees, industrial spies. Not to mention all the enemies Shepard made that won't be keen on seeing him back. Miranda's got me investigating a half dozen suspects."

"Who?"

"You know I can't tell you that, Wilson," Jacob said, betraying nothing with his eyes. He pointed to the target "Try again. Keep your arms straighter this time." Wilson nodded dumbly and turned back. He squeezed the trigger rapidly, listening with no satisfaction at the sound of them striking his target. Jacob grinned and clapped him on the back. "Not dead on, but not bad, not bad! You're a quick study."

"Thanks," Wilson mumbled. Jacob must have caught the haunted look in his eyes, for his smile disappeared. It didn't take him long to guess what was bothering the doctor.

"Listen, Wilson. I know Miranda's a hard woman to work for. _Believe _me I know. But you need to give her some credit. She is _not_ going to kill you as soon as the project is over."

Wilson swallowed dryly. He _did_ know a great many sensitive details about Shepard's resurrection. What if Miranda and the Illusive Man wiped the station and all its staff out, just to cover their tracks? It was a terrible possibility – but did he really think Miranda was that heartless? The answer stared him in the face. Yes. Yes he did.

Wilson handed Jacob his pistol, deep in thought, and headed for the door.

"Where are you off to?" Jacob asked, already taking aim at the target again.

"I'm… not sure."

The Illusive Man took another slow draw from his cigarette. His star, his perfect symbol of the frailty of the galaxy, was putting on a show today. Elegant solar flares breached from the churning ocean of fire that was its surface, changing colors as they arced and finally died out. The star's death throes were beautiful. Behind him, the interlaced hologram of Miranda cleared her throat. The Illusive Man deliberately took his time in responding – he knew Miranda was a headstrong woman, a leader and a genius, and it was important he remind her of his place or he risked losing his. He gave her a lot of freedom, but for him, she would just have to wait.

"Is it done?" he asked at length, not turning.

"Yes," she confirmed. "All sensitive materials have been moved to secure locations. Off of the grid."

"All of Dr. Wilson's notes? Medical scans and equipment reports?"

"All of it."

"And your PIT scanner?"

"It has been delivered, as you ordered. All records of its operation and existence have been destroyed."

Another draw on his cigarette. The Illusive Man smiled. Miranda had truly outdone herself this time. Developed a keystone technology for revival after brain death. In time he would let one of his front companies 'invent' the PIT scanner and sell it to fund his other projects, but for now… he could think of other individuals worth their own Lazarus projects. Himself, for one. He would keep the secrets in hand for now.

"Are you ready for what comes next?" he asked. It was time to make their move. The Collectors had struck again – Freedom's Progress, their largest target yet – and humanity could wait no longer. They needed Shepard.

There was a long pause.

"I am."

"Do it."

* * *

–

**Codex entry: The Lazarus Project (final statistics)**

Patient: Cmndr John Shepard

Species: _Homo sapiens sapiens_

Sex: M

Birthday: 4.11.2154

Weight (alive): ~110kg

Height (alive): ~1.81m

Date of Death: 10.21.2183 (age 29)

Project dates: 10.27.2183 – 11.15.2185 (749 days)

Project director: Miranda Lawson

Project chief medical officer: Eric Wilson

Total primary staff: 85 (43 medical, 21 engineering, 4 psychology, 8 pharma-chemical, 9 administrative)

**Approximate budget breakdown**

Facilities/Equipment - $1,905,643,900

Research and Development – $1,712,000,000

Cybernetics – $367,000,000

Chemicals/Supplies – $167,967,000

Labor – $30,500,000

Total: $4,183,111,000

**Treatment summary:**

CLONAL TISSUE – approx 45%, including spinal cord, hippocampus, peripheral cerebral tissue, kidneys, digestive system, exterior eye tissue, pericardium, left lung, inner ear, nasal passages, testicles, extensive skin grafts. Tissues grown clonally via SNCT procedure to ensure immunocompatibility. Digestive system, kidneys, lung, and eye tissue grown exterior to patient – all other clonal tissue developed in situ.

ENGINEERED OR NONCLONAL TRANSPLANT – approx 8%, including thymus and bone marrow transplants and neural arc regeneration. Cells isolated from subject and engineered prior to reimplantation. Antigenic bath restored immunological function after irradiation.

TRANSIENT CYBERNETICS (MEDIGELS) – approx 4%, including nutrient bathing critical organs. Urological analysis confirms all transient cybernetics treatments fully cleared.

PERMANENT CYBERNETICS – approx 21%, including eyes, skeletal joints, bone repair, trachea, nervous summation computers in optic chiasma and foramen magnum, radio-cushioned short-wave antenna in optic chiasma. Grafttec-treated alloys glow red to indicate proper tissue adhesion. Glow expected to disappear within 6-8 weeks of adhesion.

CONVENTIONAL SURGERY – approx 22%, including right lung, liver, ventricles and aorta, skin, tongue, bladder, pancreas, most skeletal muscles. Conventional physical therapy expected to speed convalescence.

Subject legally dead for 598 days before rudimentary brain activity restored. Additional 103 days before lower cognition and consciousness tests began. Initial test led to stress-related shutdown. Patient sedated and hemorrhage repaired. Subsequent tests on days 720, 728, 729, 730, 734, 735, 739, 740, 741, 742, 744, 745, 746, 747 performed in semi-conscious state.

SUBJECT AWOKEN PREMATURELY ON DAY 749

WARNING: Following 147 tests incomplete:

Kinesthetic battery (inc. coordination, muscle strength, endurance, hypertrophy analysis, steroid regimen adjustments)

Final sensory battery (inc. optical, audial, olfactory, gustatory, peripheral hot/cold/pressure, peripheral pain, advanced reflex arcs, gravitometric sense)

Higher cognition battery (inc. long term memory, short term memory, memory formation, muscle memory, pattern recognition, problem solving)

Ancillary tests of health (inc. immunological battery, long term cellular ecology, cancer screen, biofilm screen, sexual function/fertility)

RECOMMEND COMPLETION OF MISSING TEST(S)

RECOMMEND COMPLETION OF MISSING TEST(S)

RECOMMEND COMPLETION OF MISSING TEST(S)

RECOMMEND COMPLETION OF MISSING TEST(S)

–

* * *

**A/N: **So, chapter 2. I _did_ say I was going to focus on lesser characters, didn't I? I know people aren't going to like Wilson as much as, say, Tali, but I thought the game was so ambiguous about who Wilson was and why he did what he did. I wanted to explore who he was (plus, it gave me the opportunity to speculate on just how you might bring someone back from the dead).

On Wilson's betrayal: The game is so unclear, and I tried to maintain some of this ambiguity. Perhaps he betrayed Cerberus out of fear for his own life. That said, I personally prefer the idea that Wilson was framed by Miranda/TIM. Not that I necessarily want to portray Wilson as a good guy, but I think it makes Miranda more interesting (something which I'd argue her character desperately needs). My impression of Miranda will be more openly evil and at odds with Shepard than she's portrayed in the game.

I'm already almost done chapter four, and starting on five. So expect chapter three before too much longer. It will be all about the secret life of Crewman Hawthorne.

I'm kidding. It will be about major characters.

_(or will it?)_


	3. Chapter 3, Convalescence, John Shepard

**Convalescence – Commander Shepard**

* * *

–

The Commander's dreams were uneasy. It was his first night back on the job. First night in over two years where his unconsciousness was not a consequence of brain death or even chemically-induced. First night as a zombie. The thought had first occurred to him on the shuttle back from Freedom's Progress – he was undead. Zombie Shepard. The idea of being one of the twentieth-century's shambling, moaning boogeymen would have been almost laughable if he hadn't felt so damn much like one.

Tired. Confused. Falling apart at the seams. Shepard was having trouble piecing everything back together. Maybe he was just hankering for some tasty brains.

It was all too much for him right now. Not everything had made it through the Lazarus Project intact, but thankfully his military training had, or he'd probably still be hyperventilating on the floor. He had _died?_ And now he woke up on the other side with Cerberus logos stamped on his armor and guns? The mere thought had made his drug-addled head spin. He was almost grateful to hear human colonies had been disappearing – it gave him something to do, a comfortable rut to fall into until he'd had time to think things through.

By any reasonable measure, Freedom's Progress had gone well. They had come away with an eyewitness account of the attack, one that corroborated the Illusive Man's other intel. They had lucked out, and thanks to Veetor's unlikely presence (and rare love of excessive surveillance) they had a target. It was a monumental step towards putting a stop to the disappearances. Still, Shepard had returned to Minuteman Station feeling worse than ever. Joker's appearance had been a welcome surprise, of course, as had the reimagined Normandy 2.0. Simply stepping onto the ship, any fool could see that it was the same ultra-sleek, high tech stealth frigate its predecessor had been.

Still, Shepard hadn't been able to spare the effort to appreciate it. Dodging the friendlier crewmembers' attempted introductions, he'd found his way to his personal quarters and flopped down on the bed, almost instantly asleep.

–

He awoke to a familiar sight. A pale face, mouth set in determination, hovered in the haze above him, its dangling black curls tickling his face. He blinked stupidly, trying to force his eyes to focus – they clicked mechanically with each blink.

"Having trouble?" an accented voice asked. "Your eyes probably need recalibration – sometimes on the Condyles the optic nerve shifts for a bit before it makes up its mind. It'll stop in a day or two."

Something snapped in Shepard. He felt adrenalin surge through his system and his mind was suddenly filled with terror and murderous anger for the stranger sitting by his side. He flailed out, reaching frantically for the pistol on his beside table. Miranda, surprised by his sudden explosion of movement, leapt to her feet. In an instant, she'd grabbed his pistol and flung it out of his reach, causing him to roll off the bed into a painful heap on the floor.

"It's me, Shepard," she said calmly, stepping back. "I was checking your vitals." From his position on the floor, Shepard stared grimly at her boots, his body still shaking from the sudden rush. His fear reluctantly bled away as he caught up with the situation. After a moment he tried to rise to his feet, but only managed to flip himself over onto his back, where he collapsed, defeated. One of his armor plates dug painfully into his side but he lay still, too tired to shift positions – whatever drug that had been keeping him on his feet on Freedom's Progress had evidently run its course.

"Muscle weakness is to be expected," Miranda continued after a moment. "We had planned a longer steroid regimen before awakening you, but the mech attack forced our hand early. You will just have to get back in shape the old fashioned way." Shepard felt her hands under his neck as she tried to help him back into bed. "I can give you something to take the edge of the soreness if you want."

"Get out," he muttered, batting her hands away. She stepped back and gave him a very disapproving glare.

"It's very important that I monitor your health, Shepard," she said, voice frustrated.

"Get out," he repeated, not bothering to open his eyes. There was a long silence before he heard her sharp footsteps turn and walk away, leaving him spread eagle on the floor. Soon the room was quiet except for the burble of the fish tanks.

Shepard was still for a long time, dead to the world. Everything hurt. Nothing searing, barring the prickling blisters left over from a glancing shot he'd taken on Freedom's Progress, but an all-encompassing dull pain seemed to fill every ounce of his body, leaving no room for anything else. Phantom sensations flickered at his mind like he was treading water with limbs he did not possess. In his head, he did his best to keep the pain at bay, but his thoughts were just as scattered. Memories, some strong, others maddeningly ephemeral, jostled for his attention. He idly wondered how many of them were real and how many were slipped in by the Cerberus surgeons while he lay on their operating table. He didn't know if memory alteration was possible, but it seemed like the sort of thing Cerberus would do.

He tried to sort it out. He was Shepard. John Shepard, born on the SSV Nobel to Lieutenant Hannah Aarons and Captain Morgan Shepard. They were married when he was three. His father died in a batarian attack when he was nineteen, shortly after he'd enlisted. He couldn't remember how he'd felt about that. Couldn't think of anything bad to say about his father, so he must have been upset at the time. He'd graduated N5, then served on… eleven ships before the Blitz. Got the Star of Terra. Graduated N7. Three more ships, then the Normandy. And Saren. And the Reapers.

Easy enough. All stuff he could have read in a history book. Harder stuff now. He once wanted to be a lawyer of some kind, mostly to spite his parents. Gave that up quickly. He used to hate coffee – he was sure of that. Then he got used to it when he found out he needed it to function. Always got by on the cheap crap without trouble. He had a weakness for a real food, though – some kind of berry, maybe – but it wasn't coming to him. He'd very nearly quit the Alliance for good after Elysium. He liked to listen to music to help him sleep, but never while he was working. He'd had a childhood friend… Marcus or Mark or something. Someone important. Dead now, or maybe they'd had a falling out?

He did not know. And worse, he did not know if he _should_ know. Parts were gone, but _what _parts? Other things he knew he'd forgotten now shouted in his mind's ear as if they'd happened yesterday. It was maddeningly complicated.

He didn't know how long he lay there – perhaps an hour, perhaps more – but eventually his impatience managed to overcome the chaos filling his thoughts. He was pretty sure he'd always hated wasting time (or had he?), and there were things to do. With considerable effort he disentangled himself from his blankets enough to rise to a sitting position. Cradling his throbbing head in his hands, he took a good look at himself. He was naked from the waist up – Miranda had removed his armor and neatly stacked the plates on the nearby couch – revealing flesh paler and yellower than he remembered, and criss-crossed with fine, even scars. Shepard ran his fingers down the length of one, noting how the translucent scar tissue let through a weak red glow from some machine hidden down beneath. What did Cerberus do to him? He flexed his left wrist a few times, feeling how clean and mechanical the joint felt. It had never been the same after he'd broken it on Elysium, always stiff and creaky, but now it moved smooth. Perfect.

A little more of his old life lost.

"AI," he said, leaning against the bed for support as he shakily rose to his feet, "EDI. Can you hear me in here?" EDI's spherical countenance materialized from a little projector across the room.

"Yes, Commander," she said in her mathematically-perfect, calming voice.

"Keep Miranda out of this room." She gave a displeased blat, her agreeable blue 'mouth' turning red.

"I'm afraid I do not have the power to restrict Operative Lawson's privileges, Commander. Under the Illusive Man's orders, she has full access to the ship."

"Even my goddamn quarters?" Shepard asked, peeling the intravenous drip patch off of his arm and pitching it to the floor. Just this simple action made the room spin around him.

"Yes."

Shepard rubbed his face in frustration, trying to coax his pounding headache away. Some part of him wanted to go downstairs and start a shouting match with Miranda, but he realized that his bargaining position would be somewhat compromised if he couldn't even stand up.

He needed medical help to get through this. His pride let him admit this much, but to ask a Cerberus agent? Not right now, not while he was still struggling to understand his place. There had to be another way.

He grimaced – he knew there wasn't. Too bad. He had work to do, and he could hardly do it while curled up in his room like an infant. He was Commander Shepard, and old or new, Commander Shepard knew there were things more important than pride. He looked again to the blue orb still staring at him from the opposite side of the room.

"EDI, does the ship have a medic onboard?" _Anyone_ but Miranda.

"Yes."

"Send him up."

"Yes, Commander."

–

"I would have thought you'd have known better," a cultured voice said, "than to invite a female crewmember to your bedchambers." Shepard raised his head from the bed so quickly he felt his neck creak. Dr. Chakwas' familiar face was smiling brightly as she stepped into the room, a medical bag in her hands. "The crew will be gossiping about this for days."

Shepard bit back the shock (and the wave of nausea) behind his own beaming grin.

"What can I say, Doctor? I couldn't stand one more moment without you." They laughed, and suddenly the Normandy didn't feel so empty anymore. It felt… more like home. Shepard let Chakwas help him sit up. She did not miss his grimace of pain, and in seconds she'd drawn a syringe from her bag, prepared it, and gently jabbed it into the commander's shoulder. Almost immediately he felt the cool embrace of the painkillers take him, and let out a satisfied sigh. "You don't know, Helen," he said, staring blankly at the ceiling, "how glad I am to see you. And that's not just the drugs talking."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Being back here with you and Joker… it's a dream come true. Really." In Shepard's muddied mind, some remnant of Alliance rules about decorum resisted, but they were drowned out in a rush as he leaned forward and embraced her. Chakwas had always reminded him of his mother, a comparison he dearly needed right now.

"What the hell are we doing here?" he muttered quietly into her shoulder. Chakwas smiled as she broke the hug and eased him back onto his pillow.

"Well. First we are getting you feeling better. And then we are doing exactly what you want us to do. I don't care about this symbol," she said, tapping the Cerberus insignia on her uniform, "_You're_ my Commander. Not Cerberus." Shepard nodded.

"It means a lot to hear you say that," he mumbled, listening to her rustle through her bag again. "Jacob and Miranda do what I say on the field, but only because the Illusive Man told them to. If he decides to betray me, I know what side they'll be standing on. You and Joker are the only people in my corner." Chakwas nodded her understanding as she applied an IV patch to Shepard's arm (incidentally, almost identical to the one Miranda had had there until he'd ripped it off).

"It _is_ a lonely corner at the moment, Commander," Chakwas agreed, "but it'll grow. You have a talent for inspiring loyalty." Shepard frowned. Technically, he knew it to be true, but when said like that it sounded entirely too deliberate. If he had _control_ over who felt loyal to him and who didn't, then why hadn't he returned from Freedom's Progress last night with his favorite quarian in tow? Tali had been happy to see him, and he her, but it was hardly two hours and they'd parted ways again. He'd just wanted to stay with her, just hear her voice, just something to grasp to the life he'd left behind. He'd wanted so hard for the Illusive Man to be wrong, and for things to go back to the way they were before, but the glow-eyed bastard had been right. She'd… moved on. Found a new life. As much as Shepard tried to be happy for her, it hurt to see her leave him. It didn't speak well for his chances with the rest of his crew, either. Tali had been one of his best friends on the Normandy – if _she_ wouldn't join him, what were the chances of recruiting the others? Who was going to leave their new lives to rejoin his suicidal crusades?

No one. He was on his own, with a new crew – a new _Cerberus_ crew – a new ship, and a whole lot of betrayal just waiting to happen. He would count himself lucky that he had Joker and Chakwas, and leave it at that.

"Now," Chakwas said, finally satisfied with her work, "tell me how you feel."

Shepard chose to take the fully medical interpretation of the question, and did his best to describe his symptoms. Confusion, memory loss, dizziness, blurry vision, muscle weakness, phantom sensations, and pain. Chakwas began gently prodding each of his new cybernetic joints in turn and asking him to describe the pain, and by the time she'd finished her examination, it seemed like Shepard might as well have just listed every part that _didn't_ hurt. It would have been faster, anyway.

"I admit I am unfamiliar with cases… like yours," Chakwas said eventually, grasping his hand comfortingly. "I do not think you have any precedent. But I would guess much of this is to be expected. Your best recourse is probably to let the pain run its course. Your body will fix itself in time." It wasn't exactly what Shepard wanted to hear, but it was better than more drugs. "If your joint pains persist, we may need to investigate surgical correction options. Without a better idea of what they did to you, I'm afraid that's the best I can do."

"I'll get Miranda to hand over the records," Shepard promised. He silently imagined the fight that would ensue, but it did not change his mind. Miranda _would_ follow his orders, or she would find herself stranded on the nearest convenient planet with his bootprint on her perfectly-proportioned ass.

"As for your mental state," Chakwas continued, leaning back in her chair, "it may be helpful to talk to an asari. Skilled asari are often very helpful for getting thoughts into order – they can supply an outside perspective that your mind is simply too close to see." Shepard nodded, realization dawning. He remembered Liara's repeated attempts to help him organize the vision from the Prothean beacon – the way the blue calmness of her mind could put things into their boxes better than he could. It was disconcerting, really, how much his memories right now resembled the frantic, seemingly-random flashes of the Protheans' demise that had hounded his dreams for so many months. Liara hadn't cured the nightmares, but she _had_ given them some semblance of order. She had helped him before – perhaps she could help again, even if she couldn't lend her biotics to the cause. Surely she'd be willing – she'd practically jumped at every chance to touch Shepard's mind before.

"Maybe we could find Liara," Shepard mused, trying to decide how much he believed that.

"Perhaps," Chakwas agreed, "though I suspect any asari reasonably-sane asari could do it. In the meantime you might also talk to the ship's psychologist."

"We have a psychologist?" Shepard asked, skeptical.

"Indeed. Miss Chambers. She and I had lunch the other day by means of introduction. I quite like her."

"Sheesh. Next you'll tell me we have an onboard orchestra and petting zoo."

"Not that I know of," Chakwas said, grinning, "but I admit I've never been to the lower decks. Cerberus has spent a great deal of money to get your help, Commander." She gestured loosely around the spacious room, with its clean, utilitarian furniture and the enormous – but presently vacant – aquariums that dominated one wall. "I guess they didn't have the time to buy fish."

"It's all fake," Shepard muttered. "It isn't the same without my crew."

"Take heart, Commander," Chakwas said, giving his hand one final reassuring squeeze. She closed her bag and stood. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"One more thing. This," he said, pinching a fingerful of the short, greasy hair that had started to grow back since the last time Cerberus had shaved him. "I feel like I haven't washed my hair in years. Would you mind cutting it off?"

"Of course, Commander. Can't save the galaxy unless you look your best."

–

It was a few more hours before any of the crew saw Shepard again. He stepped out of the elevator onto the CIC freshly-shorn into his traditional buzzcut and reluctantly suited up in one of the black and gray Cerberus uniforms he'd found in his closet. He had spent the afternoon reading through dozens of news articles he'd had EDI send him – every major news story of the past two years. He'd tried to use the UI that came with his cybernetic eyes but had found the words superimposing themselves upon his vision far too jarring and had quickly switched back to datapads. The news was bad enough on its own.

The geth cleanup operations continued. The repairs to the Citadel continued. C-Sec had briefly begun a major inquisition into what had caused Saren to go down his dark path until, to Shepard's disgust, turian clan politics had interfered and the Council had ordered the investigation halted. The batarians were seeing the beginnings of a schism as the hegemony continued to retract from the Council, despite the protests of thousands of batarian merchants who resented the loss of sales their species' increasingly-poor reputation was bringing. Pirate activity had increased three hundred percent as the Council races continued to patrol and protect only their own holdings. The humans' controversial addition to the council had led to deep rifts between many Citadel species, and hate crimes, especially against humans and quarians, had nearly doubled in the past two years. It went on and on.

It was depressing stuff, but what upset Shepard the most is what he didn't see. He didn't see references to the Reapers. He didn't see preparations being made, alliances being forged, new communications networks being developed. He didn't see initiatives to study the Citadel, to understand the technology that could be (and had already been) used against them. Pompous hanar politicians had led the charge to write off Sovereign as a geth creation, not liking the idea that their much-vaunted Enkindlers had been just one of many sentient species to be harvested by the _true_ creators of the mass relays, but Shepard knew the Council wouldn't have let the Reapers drop based on one cantankerous race of zealots alone. They let them drop because it was politically expedient to do so. After all he'd done, they _still_ didn't believe him. The Reapers' coming invasion was being allowed to languish under the specter of the geth. Instead of banding together to face the greatest threat they'd ever known, the races of the galaxy were breaking further apart. It made Shepard sick.

He did his best to put all that aside as he examined his new ship. At Chakwas' suggestion he'd forced down a meal and actually felt a great deal better than he had when he'd awoken – well enough to start getting to know his new 'crew', anyway. He chatted briefly with Kelly and found her a great deal cheerier than he'd expected any Cerberus employee could be. She introduced him to some of the CIC staff – navigators and gunners and simulation specialists. Despite its larger size, the Normandy SR2 had a crew no larger than its predecessor, courtesy of a great deal of computer automation, not least of which was the addition of EDI. Alliance warships had officially joined the rest of the galaxy in distrusting advanced computer intelligences, but apparently Cerberus had no such qualms and many of the ship's crew were tasked not with running the ship itself, but with babysitting the computers that did it for them. Shepard found it fascinating, despite himself, and marveled at how far the instrumentation had come in just two scant years.

He had to admit, it was a ship fit for a king. Every bolt, every bulkhead, everything was spotless, tuned to perfection. Shepard could not remember the cost Miranda had quoted for his own resurrection, but he had a feeling it paled next to what it had cost to revive his ship. Still, without the original crew it felt hollow and lifeless. Shepard had little doubt construction of this Normandy had begun well before he'd lost his – everything about the ship screamed that it was Cerberus' attempt to outdo the Alliance at every turn. Not to mention the logos which Cerberus had seen fit to paint on roughly every surface.

Ignoring the pile of messages at his personal terminal, Shepard waved his new crew back to their jobs and made for the cockpit. It helped his mood immensely to see Joker sitting in the pilot's chair. The cranky pilot seemed very much like a permanent fixture – it was hard to imagine the Normandy without him. Shepard flopped unceremoniously in the seat to Joker's right.

"Here," he offered, remembering how Kaidan had often kept Joker company on the bridge while working on the old Normandy's computers, "I'll be Alenko."

"Sorry Commander, you're not nearly dreamy enough to be Alenko. No offense, just sayin'."

"Fair enough. How are we doing?"

"ETA to Omega about... five hours," Joker replied, glancing at a screen above his head. "I'm dragging my feet a bit, though. Thought you could use the time to get to know the new Normandy. I can cut it down to three if you want."

"I'm in no rush, believe me."

"Don't blame you. A ship this pretty's gotto be _savored_. Can't just take her in all at once." He patted the Normandy's dashboard lovingly. Silence passed between the men. For his part, Shepard spent it staring out the windows at the blue-shifted energy coalescing off of the ship's elegant hull. It was still beautiful.

"So..." Joker continued after a moment, interrupting the quiet. "Sorry again for killing you. I really want to promise you'll never have to come pull my ass out of this chair again, but man..." He squirmed contentedly, deeper into his new leather seat. "It's so _comfortable_, Commander! Can't promise anything." Shepard laughed.

"Next time I'm leaving your crippled ass here to die," he said. "Cerberus can rebuild _you_. Maybe put in some work ethic or a proper sense of humor."

"Don't know about that, but I'll bet those eyes of yours are a hit with the ladies."

"Take 'em," Shepard said, leaning back and sheathing his eyes behind their lids. "Ten to one says they're feeding everything I see to the Illusive Man." It was a chilling thought, but again, it seemed right up Cerberus' alley.

"Ouch. Really think so?"

"EDI?" Shepard asked by way of answer. She appeared atop the dash.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Are my eyes cameras?" There was a thoughtful pause.

"Of course, Commander. An eye is a biological camera. It is logical that a cybernetic eye would be a camera as well." Shepard rephrased.

"Are my eyes transmitting data anywhere except for my brain?" There was a beat of hesitation, followed by another disapproving note.

"I'm sorry Commander," EDI replied, mouth red. "I have a block on answering that question."

"Pretty sure you just did anyway. That's all," Shepard said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

"I apologize, Commander," she said, and disappeared from view.

"Sheesh," Joker said, shaking his head. "So we both have Cerberus robo-spies watching our every move. Kinda breaks the whole illusion of trust, huh? And here I was feeling all fuzzy towards 'em for fixing my ship."

"They can't be trusted, Joker," Shepard warned. "Nobody is _secretly_ good. If you're good, you don't try to hide it behind crazy-ass experiments and torture." Joker shrugged.

"They're not all bad, Commander," he said hopefully. "They brought _you_ back to life and let _me_ fly when the Alliance turned their backs on us. That's something, at least."

"There's an angle here, Joker. They didn't do this out of the goodness of their hearts and I don't like not trusting my team," Shepard said, crossing his arms petulantly. He knew he was being at least a little childish – after all, they _had_ brought him back to life – but he didn't care. Dishonesty was perhaps the one thing Shepard hated above all else, and Cerberus was nothing if not dishonest. Everything was a front, everything had ulterior motives. "I want my old group back," he whined, "and I'm not gonna get it."

"Christmas is ruined forever, huh?" Joker asked, grinning. "Still, it must have been nice to see Tali. At least you know she's okay."

"Yeah," Shepard admitted begrudgingly. "I suppose."

"Always liked Tali," Joker continued. "Smart, you know. Remember how whenever you turned a human phrase around Liara she'd just, like, go wide-eyed?" Joker took on a fake, airy falsetto. "By the Goddess," he stammered, staring about frantically, "I... I don't have much experience with... err... I mean to say... Oh, I must seem so dreadfully foolish right now!" It was a surprisingly good impression of Liara and Shepard couldn't help but laugh.

"It didn't help that you kept making them up." Joker had been truly awful to the poor flabbergasted asari, inventing idioms like 'eight feet below the walrus' and 'quiet as three home-grown monkey tails' whenever he spoke to her, just to watch her squirm in confusion. Shepard would have put a stop to it if it hadn't been so damn funny.

"What can I say?" Joker asked, shrugging, "I'm a trend-setter. Point is, Tali didn't do that. She'd just stare at you for a second – maybe she looks it up in her helmet or something – and then keeps going. Uses her head. My kindof girl."

"Didn't realize you had a kind."

"Oh sure. There are tough jockish types like you that can beat up bullies on the beach, and then there are distinguished sorts like me and Tali," he stroked his scraggly beard for emphasis.

"Distinguished?" Shepard asked, dubious.

"I'm _thoughtfully stroking my beard, _Shepard," Joker protested, "How much more distinguished can you get!?"

"But Tali doesn't have a beard."

"How do you know? She could look like Santa Claus beneath that helmet."

"I looked it up, long time ago," Shepard replied. "Quarians have quills, and these little," he held up his hands to his cheeks, "geth... plate... things."

"Geth plates? Creepy."

"It's not so bad. They're not asari, but still pretty human."

"Alright, Loverboy, I get it," Joker said, grinning cheekily, "I won't muscle in on your girl." Shepard just glared at him, which only caused Joker to look more and more self-satisfied.

"She's not my girl, she's my friend. And you shouldn't be muscling in on _any_ girl. EDI might get jealous and go full reaper on you."

Joker winced. "Not cool, Commander," he said, shaking his head disapprovingly, "Not cool."

–

* * *

**Codex entry: Grafttec Cybernetics' Condyle-6 Ocular Implants**

Medical technology, genetic and cybernetic alike, has largely been considered humanity's greatest contribution to galactic technological advancement. Though not as famous as Sirta foundation and its now near-ubiquitous medigel bioplasm, Grafttec Cybernetics has remained one of the galaxy's foremost developers of biomechanical technologies.

Grafttec has its origins in an American scientific think-tank in the mid twenty-first century. It capitalized on the now-well-known Graham's Paradox, first described by co-founder James Graham, to quickly expand into the largest biomedical corporation on the planet. Graham's Paradox states that as the neurons of the brain are mapped in greater and greater detail, the variations between individuals become a greater and greater barrier to development of neuro-mechanical interfaces taking advantage of these pathways. James Graham realized that the pipe dream of complicated technology controlled entirely by thought could simply never be economically feasible. While interfaces of astounding complexity could be manufactured, the somewhat-arbitrary way that the human brain stored memories made it necessary for each interface to be custom-tailored to each individual brain's unique microstructure. This made wide-scale application of complicated cybernetics essentially impossible, due to the crippling development and installation times required for each patient.

So, while its competitors continued to pursue the holy grail of computers entirely controlled by the user's mind, Grafttec turned its efforts to improving bio-integration. Grafttec products used simple neuromechanical interfaces for basic mental control, augmented with small external computers (usually worn on the belt or collar) for control of advanced features. This allowed for their cybernetics to be installed cheaper, wider, and faster than any of their competitions', and cemented Grafttec's status as a world leader in biotechnology.

After First Contact, the influx of alien technology cost Grafttec its undisputed ruler status, but the company remains one of the largest cybernetics corporations of any sentient race. Grafttec's proprietary bio-integration techniques allow cybernetics to merge with organic flesh seamlessly, leading to faster recovery times, fewer side-effects, lower maintenance, and, most importantly, subtler visual integration. Cybernetically-enhanced individuals have always drawn prejudice from the larger public, and so Grafttec's much-hyped, nearly-invisible products are often in high demand compared to the clunky, obvious technology of some of its competitors.

Grafttec's commitment to invisible cybernetics, while a clear marketing boon for the company, nearly led to disaster after the release of their Condyle-1 ocular implants. These cybernetic eyes – nearly indistinguishable from their organic counterparts – featured tri-paned stereopanels situated around the conventional central camera, capable of not only enhancing stereoscopic and distance vision, but also detecting and interpreting ultraviolet and infrared radiation. They became an instant hit among human soldiers galaxy-wide for their capacity to increase accuracy by up to 26%. However, they were also the first model to include a miniaturized hard-drive and short-beam transmitter, capable of capturing and storing up to 100 hours of visual data.

While military minds praised the record function's enormous value for reconnaissance, civilian sectors were less impressed. Condyle-1's were very difficult to detect with conventional security scanners, and they became deadly tools in the hands of corporate spies or paparazzi. Elai Tandrell, a popular asari singer, sued Grafttec for three hundred million credits in damages after discovering her bodyguard had been using Condyle-1 implants to capture and sell revealing footage to the press. Meanwhile, representatives from the Council, C-Sec, and other large governmental bodies expressed fears that the eyes could be used to obtain dangerous secrets in the wrong hands.

The Condyle-1 model was quickly discontinued. Later Condyle models retained the recording function but had no internal hard drive, requiring the use of an external and easily-detectable storage module. Most controversially, later Condyles were given a strong, artificial glow that made them almost impossible to conceal. Many cybernetically-enhanced individuals expressed outrage over the change, claiming that Grafttec was subjecting them to a life of undeserved ostracism. Illegal modding of late-generation Condyle implants become commonplace – skilled surgeons could disable the glow or even conceal it beneath clonally-grown organic flesh. Internal hard drives and radio-cushioned transmitters were often implanted into the optic chiasma of the brain, restoring the covert recording function of the original Condyles. Though Grafttec has publicly expressed its displeasure with the modders, and points out that modding of any kind automatically voids their products' warranties, no official legal action has been taken.

Condyle-6 ocular implants were released in mid-2185. They feature fixes to several common bugs known to plague the Condyle-5's, along with a more robust user-interface containing hundreds of new commands that can be uploaded into any standard omni-tool. Image-enhancing stereopanels now feature seven total microlayers, including a new, proprietary pigment that enhances color distinction in the red spectrum by at least 35%. Most notably, the Condyle-6 expands upon previous models' HUDs, allowing data streams and even Haptic Interfaces to be projected directly into the user's brain, instead of onto holographic panels.

–

* * *

**A/N:** So, chapter 3. Back to a few of the main characters. I really enjoyed writing this one.

On Shepard's character: I've always liked War Hero and Spacer because they are the least melodramatic of the options. I think all the others lend themselves too easily to 'shell-shocked Shepard struggles to overcome demons of his/her past', which just doesn't interest me much. My Shepard is not a complicated man – he's just a hard-working guy trying to do the best for everyone.

Hope you enjoy! Stay tuned for chapter 4 in the next few days!


	4. Chapter 4, Outbreak, various

**Outbreak – various**

**

* * *

**–

_Four weeks ago..._

–

Omega was a land of prosperity and death. A lone batarian, terrified, ran down an abandoned alley. The ozone smell of shorted-out shields filled his many nostrils with each laborious breath he took. He did not look over his shoulder to see if he'd lost his pursuers yet. He just ran and ran, tripping over piles of refuse. His mind – previously regarded as one of the brightest the Blue Suns had, wondered furiously how his luck had reversed so quickly. Was this his destiny, to die like a tuk-rat in the sewers? Alone and forgotten? Sutka knew how the game was played, but he never expected he'd be on the losing side again. On Omega, you won or lost on your own merits. There was no padding, no system in place to protect the weak. You could be a king one week and lowly slave the next (Patriarch could tell you all about that). Smarts and luck _were_ destiny. Sutka had had no small measure of either, but it appeared they had finally run out.

A shot rang out, and there was an explosion of pain in Sutka's right foot. He cried out as he tumbled violently to the ground, smashing his face against the alleyway's steel floor. Blood leaked down his forehead into his eyes, painting everything a red-brown hue as he twisted to look at the stump where his foot used to be. He howled in shock and rage.

–

Sutka had had a hard life. Everything he had, he'd fought tooth and nail for. Nothing given, everything taken. Bastard child to a bottom-class mother on one of the batarians' outermost colonies, Sutka had been taken from his miserable family and sold into slavery before his seventh birthday. Enslaved by his own kind to pay one of the local gerent's debts to an offworlder. He didn't know enough to be disgusted.

His childhood, if it could so be called, was spent touring the Omega slave market, being passed from master to master. Most of his owners were awful – many didn't feed him, leaving him to survive on what he could steal or scavenge from the streets. Others would beat their slaves for the minorest offenses, and Sutka had seen more than one of his peers die over misplaced tools or late shipments or even just being in the wrong place on one of their masters' bad days. Still, Sutka made the most of it. He was smart – smarter by far than any other batarian he'd met – and soaked up everything Omega could teach him. Most of his masters had him do manual labor then, when he was big enough, guarding valuables or roughing up unruly customers – batarians were seen as good for little else – but every time a master grew tired of him and resold him he returned to the market with a few new skills. From lockpicking to welding to the best way to break a turian's arm, Sutka had done it all, and the price he fetched grew higher and higher.

He belonged for a few years to a wealthy volus merchant, who quickly recognized his keen intellect and put him at the head of a small slave militia. Sutka had delighted in the ability to command other slaves, to outthink the volus' business rivals and leave them broken-kneed in the remains of their own shops, and his master had treated him well. Then the volus had stepped a bit too far and the Blue Suns had shut him down. Sutka still remembered the sight of his master's environment suit rupturing.

The Suns took Sutka in, putting him to work as a covert guard. He would sit in disguise in front of hidden Blue Sun shipments, pretending to be a vagrant, but ready to crack skulls should anyone get too curious. It didn't take long for his shrewdness and mind for the viciously practical to get him noticed here either – he had a knack for recognizing threats well before they made their move. He even managed to charm away Aria's men once or twice, something few Suns would risk even attempting.

Standing guard on the Omega streets, Sutka had prime seats to watch Archangel's story unfold. The Suns started dying. Not unusual in itself – some loss of life and limb was entirely expected on Omega – but not entire squads. Sutka watched the station reel as it tried to explain the sudden deaths of so many armed men. Then it came to light – he'd been seen. The newest of Omega's long history of vigilantes had declared war on the station's vast complement of mercenaries. At first, killings were few and far between, but with every merc killed, the killer's infamy grew. Before long, the public had conjured up a quasi-mythical face to put on their new champion, and Archangel was born, baptized in the blood of a thousand guns for hire.

Sutka never lost a shipment until Archangel. And when he finally did, instead of beating him, the Suns made him a member. Freed him. He'd gone to get the tattoo that afternoon, and worn it proudly ever since.

The months that followed were bad months to be a mercenary on Omega. Hundreds of deaths, and one name on everyone's lips. The Blue Suns _hated_ Archangel. Eclipse hated Archangel. The Blood Pack hated Archangel. _Everyone_ hated Archangel.

Sutka didn't. If Archangel hadn't decided to repaint the station in merc blood, he knew he would still be a slave. And if Archangel wasn't so goddamn clever, Sutka wouldn't have been promoted to sergeant. The Suns needed men to deal with Archangel. Men like Sutka. Hundreds of years of lax restrictions had turned Omega's battlefields into contests of strength alone. No attempts to hide smuggling were made – if you had the guns, you made the rules. While accounts varied, popular rumor put Archangel's allies at no more than fifty, a gnat next to the overextended mercenary armies that made their home on Omega, and yet the bastard had every criminal quaking in their boots. Sutka knew why, and it gave him an edge; Archangel had changed the game, and that was what made him terrifying. He wasn't a Spectre or a biotic god or any of the other insane labels people gave him – he was just clever. He turned mercs against one another, used their greed and complacency to destroy them without _needing_ the brute force that was Omega's norm.

Archangel was a thinker. And no matter who they amassed to kill him, he simply wasn't going to be stopped by anyone who wasn't. Sutka was a thinker, and it made people listen to him. He had brains. He had power. He knew traps when he saw them. And so he'd known right away there was something wrong with this Sidonis fellow.

–

He'd been right, but it came as no comfort now. Sutka tossed his blue and white helmet aside – it wouldn't protect him from sniper fire anyway – and crawled his way over to prop himself against the nearest wall. Blood from his missing foot pooled around him. His hands shook viciously as he drew a packet of medigel from the pouch on his belt. It took him several tries to open it and squeeze it onto the ragged stump. He grit his teeth and rubbed it across the wound, sealing it as completely as possible. The medigel sizzled as it solidified.

The sound of heavy footsteps from the far end of the alley nearly sent Sutka into cardiac arrest. Terror seemed to press in from every direction. His mind worked furiously, searching for any option. He was unarmed – his gun had been shot out of his hands – and obviously not in any shape to outrun a turian. That just left hiding. He crawled to the largest pile of trash he could see and burrowed in, piling putrid-smelling filth atop himself. Anything to escape detection.

It was to no avail.

"How appropriate." Archangel's voice was calm and smooth, as if he considered Sutka no more pressing than the weather, and it filled Sutka with rage. He looked up to see a helmeted turian, armored head to foot in blue steel and cradling a massive sniper rifle. "Trash hiding in trash."

"Fuck you," Sutka spat, snarling. If Archangel was at all offended, he didn't show it. He took a knee next to Sutka, leaning casually on his weapon for balance.

"I wonder if you've learned your lesson," Archangel mused. Sutka couldn't see his expression behind his black visor, but it gave him chills all the same.

–

At first, Sidonis had seemed legit enough. He'd approached the Suns through the usual channel, called himself a drug runner. Brought them product to see – a case of Hallex and Setzac. Clean, pure. Worth its weight on the streets and elsewhere. He promised more of the same and the other Suns had agreed without pause – Archangel's activities had made such valuable shipments hard to find indeed.

Sutka had had his doubts. Even after Sidonis had made good on his delivery of a whole pallet of product, just as pure as the first, Sutka had doubted. Sidonis had used his name. His _real_ name – Sutka had checked. No self-respecting drug runner would do that.

It hadn't taken Sutka much to convince the others that Sidonis was a threat worth ending – the Suns had learned to trust when he had something to say about Archangel. Besides, even if he was wrong, they could still get their hands on Sidonis' product. And if he was right, and Sidonis _was_ just baiting them for a later trap, then they could pump him full of holes and leave his body for Archangel to find.

Sutka himself had led the party to hunt down Sidonis. It hadn't taken long for them to find him, living in a dingy apartment in one of the station's nearly-abandoned lower decks. Steadily failing life support in the area had made the air unpleasant, filled with the omnipresent stink of poisonous gas pockets, and most of the residents had long since abandoned their homes. Empty buildings had stared down at the Blue Suns as they'd made their way to Sidonis' home. It was a perfect hideout for a drug runner. Or a vigilante. Sutka had sent men to setup sniper rifles at several nearby vantages before kicking in the door.

Sutka and his men charged in without hesitation, shoving through the door so fast they nearly bowled over the stripe-faced turian behind it. In seconds, two of the Suns had a shell-shocked Sidonis on his knees, his taloned hands cuffed behind his back. Sidonis' protests died on his mandibles when Sutka kicked his gut so hard he wretched blue blood onto the floor.

"Remember us?" Sutka asked, grinning sadistically at Sidonis' defeated posture. He paced around the beaten turian like a hungry varren. "Sidonis?"

"What is this?" Sidonis managed, looking meekly up at Sutka. The batarian backhanded him with one gauntlet.

"You know what this is. This is us not falling for it." He signaled one of the men holding Sidonis' arm, who slammed a fist down into the cleft of the turian's neck. Sidonis cried out in pain. "This is you being outsmarted. Where is Archangel?" he demanded.

"How should I know? I have no idea what you're talking about!" Sutka signaled the merc to hit him again.

"Do I need to ask again?"

"I don't know!" Sidonis shouted, earning him another strike.

"You think I'm stupid?" Sutka asked dangerously. "I'm not." He grabbed the turian's chin, forcing him to stare into his eyes. "I _know_ you're with him. I knew it the instant I heard you talk. You _talk_ like him. Like you're _better_ than us. Like you don't have a bad side."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Sidonis mumbled, and he was struck again.

"Don't bother stalling," Sutka said, releasing Sidonis' head to hang limply. "Don't think your sacrifice will give him time to escape. He won't get ten feet from this building. I have men covering every exit." Sidonis muttered something. "What was that?" Sutka asked, leaning in close. He drew a knife and held it to the turian's throat. Sidonis spit out a mouthful of blood.

"I said _check again, asshole_."

There was a _thump_ from outside, and Sutka felt his stomach descend. He turned and saw the bloodied corpse of one of his men laying in an unceremonious heap at the foot of the broken door.

All hell broke loose.

–

Sutka was the only one who made it more than a few feet. Well-positioned sniper fire had felled the other Suns in seconds, and he'd only just managed to escape behind a corner with his life. Now here he was, bleeding to death in an alley while Archangel watched. He cursed his own stupidity. He had been right – Sidonis _had_ been setting them up for a trap. But not the trap he'd expected, and Sutka had walked right into it, right into Archangel's well-prepared killing ground. And now he was going to die for it.

Footsteps rang out again. Through the haze of blood on his face, Sutka recognized the shape of a second turian. Archangel stood as the newcomer cocked a gun.

"Played it a little close, didn't we?" the new turian – Sidonis – asked. Sutka could hear the anger in his voice, and feared for his life.

"We had to make sure we had a bead on all of them," Archangel responded calmly – too calmly for one who'd just been through a firefight. "You survived. You played your part well."

"Thank you sir," Sidonis said, the adoration in his voice clear. Even Sutka could hear how much he idolized the other turian. "A few bruises will be worth it to do in this piece of crap." Sutka felt a solid kick to his midsection and curled over in pain.

"Please. Please," he started to say. A gunshot rang out. Pain flowered up from the new hole in Sutka's good foot, and he screamed in agony.

"Shut up and listen," Sidonis growled. Sutka quieted. "We _are_ better than you. We _are _Omega's good side. If you were half as smart as you think, you'd have seen that and gotten out." Sutka heard the whirr of Sidonis' pistol and felt it press against the spongy mess on his forehead. He prepared for the end.

"Wait," Archangel's voice, still calm, like before. "Stop."

"He should die," Sidonis growled. "Come on. Look what he did to me."

"He _should_ die," Archangel agreed. "And he _will_. But not today. We need him to run back home with his tail between his legs, tell his friends what he's learned. We need him to live. Trust me." Sutka looked up hopefully. Even through the bloody haze over his eyes he could see Sidonis' disappointment. There was a long silence. "Trust me."

At length, Sidonis lowered his gun. "Alright," he breathed. "Alright." Sutka was filled with relief, until Sidonis gave him another solid kick for good measure. He yelped but otherwise stayed quiet, too thankful for a second chance to worry about saving face. He'd regain his honor. He'd make these turians pay. They had crossed the wrong batarian. "Maybe he'll bleed out anyway," Sidonis said hopefully as the two turians left the alley, leaving Sutka to nurse his wounds.

"We can only hope."

* * *

_Three weeks ago..._

–

Omega was disgusting. The whole place, really, but down in the ducts in vorcha territory? Awful. Simply awful. Captain Gavorn muttered a stream of obscenities as he crawled, on elbows and knees, through six inches of vorcha feces. He wondered if the vorcha chose these ducts as their latrines on purpose, knowing they were the only way he had into their lair. He wouldn't put it past the little vermin – it was disgusting and stupid, like most vorcha 'ideas'. And they wondered why he shot them at every opportunity.

As foul as these trips through what amounted to vorcha sewers were, Gavorn never rushed them. He had no delusions about the tenuous peace he'd managed to find with the vorcha – it was based on fear, and fear alone. As soon as they thought they had an advantage their sniveling subservience would disappear in a heartbeat and they'd be all over him. Gavorn had no intention of giving them that opportunity. He crawled deliberately, slowly, his assault rifle leveled out in front of him. Every sound made him stop and listen – he had not survived his tour of duty in the turian military to be outsmarted by frickin' _vorcha._ He crawled past a vorcha corpse, riddled with holes – it was one of the ones he'd killed last week, dead but still twitching as its bodies stem cells tried to repair the damage. He pushed it aside and kept going.

He emerged from the far end of the tube without incident and shook off the coat of foul-smelling sludge as best he could. Here, in a sealed-off deck in Omega's underbelly, was one of the vorcha nests. The deck had been cordoned off a few decades back after a hull breach. Somehow, the vorcha (or, more likely in Gavorn's mind, some smarter species) had found the leak and plugged it, and now the whole area was swarming with the needle-toothed monsters. Nests were tucked away in every orifice, leathery, shell-less eggs lying about abandoned in piles of filth and refuse the mother had collected.

The vorcha knew to avoid the ducts Gavorn used to enter their lair, but he could still hear them beyond the walls, bickering and fighting. He scowled angrily, wiping the slime off of the light on his rifle, before making for one of the passages. Screeching hatchlings crunched beneath his taloned feet as he waded his way through the muck. His light pierced through the pitch black as he swept it from side to side, checking each crack and crevasse for ambushers. There were none. The temperature was sweltering, and Gavorn's mandibles clacked back and forth to fan off excess heat.

A black silhouette materialized out of the dim light at the end of the tunnel. It was hunched, ugly to look at, but stayed stock still as Gavorn approached, rifle brandished threateningly ahead of him. He fired a few shots over the vorcha's head, causing it to duck and mewl piteously, but it did not flee. They knew the pattern – whenever they approached Gavorn in groups, the captain would pick one or two off to show he meant business, but if they only ever met him singly he would spare their lives rather than have to seek out another. Gavorn was an impatient turian.

"Nanak Captain Gavorn," the vorcha spat, staring up at him with creepy slit eyes. "Pek pek. You have brought something good?"

"Shut up," Gavorn snapped, training his gun on the vorcha's head. The vorcha did not move. "I told you the deal, you little cretins. You don't get what you want until _I_ get what _I_ want."

"Gavorn get what he want, vorcha very quiet this week," the vorcha protested, clicking its bizarre array of needle-sharp teeth in annoyance.

"Bullshit. Blue Suns told Aria you've been stepping into their territory again." Without warning, he reeled back and slammed the butt of his gun into the vorcha's face with a gruesome crack. It gave a blood-curdling scream and fell to the ground, clutching its broken face. "Aria nearly had me killed!"

"Sorry, we sorry!" the vorcha screeched pitifully as Gavorn set a taloned foot atop its neck. "We did not know! Stupid vorcha!"

"You want to keep the boot from coming down, you keep your little friends _out of Aria's sight!"_ Gavorn roared, giving a little push. The vorcha gurgled painfully, grasping futilely at Gavorn's leg. He gave it another good whack with his rifle for good measure before finally stepping off to let the little creature breathe. It dutifully limped to its feet, whimpering piteously.

"Sorry," it burbled. "Stupid, stupid." Gavorn glared down at the vorcha.

"You _know_ what happens if you cross me again."

"The flames," the vorcha squeaked almost inaudibly. "Captain Gavorn come back with the flames and burn home." It had not been long after Aria had assigned him the vorcha problem that Gavorn had learned how much the little pests feared flamethrowers. They had no qualms using them themselves, but Gavorn had only had to barbeque their nesting grounds once to get their attention in a big way. Now the mere threat of it was often enough to get them to fall in line.

"That's right," he said. "Now listen to me." The vorcha looked up, listening intently. "I have a... friend. Turian, like me. Named Acus. See, Acus and I had a bit of a falling out recently. I want you to kill him. Do you know where the Ugudu apartment complex is?" The vorcha nodded slowly. "He lives there. Leave his head where you find him, so I know you did good, and I'll let you eat the rest." As stupid as the vorcha were, they were tenacious little bastards when they wanted something. They could get roughly anywhere on the station, traveling through ducts and dangerous engineering corridors. And better, nobody cared what the vorcha did. If people that just happened to have substantial cash bounties on them just happened to be torn apart by vorcha during the night, nobody bothered mounting an investigation. Gavorn could collect the bounties without suspicion.

"Cannot eat head?" the vorcha asked after a moment, cocking its head to one side.

"No. How will I know you did good?" Gavorn asked. "How will I know to bring you something good the next time I come?" The vorcha seemed to consider this for a long moment.

"No," it said, and stared defiantly up at him. Gavorn's eyes widened, then narrowed in cold rage.

"What did you just say to me?" he breathed dangerously, training his rifle on the vorcha's forehead.

"No!" the vorcha repeated, then erupted into peals of throaty laughter. Its mirth was cut off as Gavorn pulled the trigger, ending its life in a plume of red mist. Gavorn cursed impatiently as the body flopped lifelessly into the sludge. Goddamn vorcha. Now he'd have to find another one and repeat the order. He toed the vorcha corpse to one side and continued down the hall before he heard more laughter behind him. He stopped and turned.

Two dozen vorcha filled the hallway behind him, cradling weapons in their spindly arms. They laughed their eerie laughs and stared viciously at him, like he was a mere piece of meat. Gavorn did not hesitate in the least, and immediately shot the closest vorcha dead. The others scattered for a moment, but in seconds they were back, still cackling.

"Back off," Gavorn warned, killing another vorcha. They kept laughing and began to press in, stepping over their friends' corpses without a second glance.

"We not listen to Gavorn. Not today," one of them told him before he cut it down in a flurry of well-placed shots. Gavorn felt the fear start to grip him. He had been attacked before, but not like this. Nothing organized. Nothing a few blasts of his assault rifle couldn't dissuade. This time vorcha were practically pouring out of the walls, fearless as they surrounded him from every direction. They started to take potshots at him and he was forced to retreat, plowing down several of them in his path. He dove behind a nearby alcove.

"Gavorn will bring the flames!" Gavorn threatened desperately, popping a fresh heat sink into his gun. Though his mind feared, his military training kicked in without fail. He took his time to aim each shot, cleanly blasting the vorchas' heads off their bodies as he backed away.

"Blue suns territory VORCHA territory!" one of the vorcha screamed, ignoring him. "We make plague! We make vorcha strong!" Gavorn popped up from his hiding place. There was no holding back now, and the captain fired broadly into the crowd of foes, cutting down dozens. Still they kept coming, clawing rabidly after him as he retreated.

"Boot comes down!" they screamed. "No more Gavorn! No more fight for Gavorn! Eat him!" Even as he slaughtered them their numbers continued to swell. Gavorn swore as he used his last heatsink and the vorcha kept coming. One of them grabbed at him – he hit it so hard the overheated rifle splintered. Tossing its useless remains into the sludge, Gavorn turned tail and ran back the way he had come, firing his pistol blindly behind his back. He did not look backwards to see the tidal wave of claws and anger chasing him as he dove into the ducts, crawling for his life. Their laughter followed him, echoing off of the filth-stained walls.

* * *

_Two weeks ago..._

–

Omega was hers. No further explanation needed. No hedged words, no conditions. The absoluteness made Aria smile. Sometimes she entertained herself thinking of all the ways her power could have been an illusion, somehow smaller than she thought. All the ways she might have missed something. All the ways she might not actually be the all-powerful bitch she knew herself to be. History was full of powerful people, but _absolute_ rulers? Rare. Unprecedented, even. History said that there had to be cracks in her kingdom. Parts of Omega she didn't rule.

History was wrong.

Asari were, as a rule, quite intelligent. They lacked the frantic curiosity of the salarians, the quiet aptitude of the quarians. Even the raw, flexible ingenuity of the humans. But for putting things together, for drawing thousands of ideas into one, careful symphony, none compared. Matriarchs were famous for their long-view wisdom, their ability to see the currents in asari society and steer them where they belonged, and Aria was no different. Centuries on Omega had set her at its center, the station's mind, heart, and soul. She fed off of its vicious pulse, reading the ecosystem of violence and riches. Thousands of individuals fed her information in networks she'd carefully cultivated for hundreds of years now, networks that made the close-knit council of guards Patriarch had used as his eyes and ears look almost comically pathetic by comparison. _Nothing_ that happened on Omega escaped her notice. And she knew what to do with it. When to act, when to wait. When to lie, when to tell the truth. The complexities of running an empire had become almost second nature to her now.

She'd known about Gavorn's dealings with the vorcha. She didn't care. Gavorn did his job – he kept the vorcha out of her sight. If he chose to send them after bounties, earn a little side cash, it was no scales off her head. He deserved the money. Besides, quick bounty turnover kept Omega moving. Kept things interesting. Of course, it didn't do to let people think she tolerated disloyalty – she knew all too well the ripples and power struggles any shift in her reputation could create – and so when he'd shown up, beaten and filthy and terrified after his vorcha pets had finally turned on him, she'd had him tortured to prove a point. But it hadn't been personal. She had simply demanded it. _Omega_ had demanded it.

It was the same reason she'd given that salarian what he'd wanted. She'd liked him immediately. Mordin Solus was utterly transparent and it was all he aspired to be. Morality had always struck Aria as something of a bother, a contradictory pile of rules and regulations that the races of the galaxy used to make themselves feel bad about feeling good, but when Mordin had outlined his own system at two hundred words a minute and it had been so _ruthless, _so unapologetically different, so simple and accepting of its own nature, she had been amused. He'd explained his wishes to move his clinic and a small army of mechs to the Gozu district, to battle a plague he knew was coming. Asked permission out of respect, but made it clear he planned to do it whether she agreed or not. His bravery was refreshing.

She'd allowed it, then closed the doors behind him. Ordered a quarantine, posted guards. Locked Mordin Solus and his clinic in the middle of vorcha and Suns and a whole lot of violence.

It wasn't out of any particular worry about the plague – it would run its course. She wanted to see what would happen.

It was good to be the queen.

* * *

_One week ago_...

–

Omega was fascinating. Where else could one spend one week patching up gunshots and the next matching wits with a biotechnological plague? The interplay of so many races without the intrusion of any pretense of government wove a thick tangle of secrecy, violence, and drama that Mordin found almost hypnotizing. It was a land of puzzles and lies. Disgusting and heartless, yet never a dull moment.

"Doctor." It was Daniel. "One of our patients is not responding to the Trioclopan."

"Batarian, yes?" Mordin sheathed his bulbous eyes, thinking. "Saw this coming. Batarian clearance rate faster than Trioclopan mechanism. Risky choice, risky from the beginning. Still, only way. No other drug produce translational shutdown without risk of organ failure."

"We could try icing him. Drop the temperature, drop the metabolism."

"No no. Batarian phenotype plasticity an issue. Drop temperature too low, changes expression patterns. Complicates our work. No, must be Trioclopan. Coinject with anti-diuretic. Monitor. Place on dialysis if skin discolors. Kidney failing. Risk, but unavoidable."

"Yes Doctor," Daniel agreed, rushing off to fill Mordin's orders. Mordin smiled. Daniel was a bright young man. Not a salarian, mind you, but still did not hesitate to help even batarians, even as they hurled insults and spat at him for being human. Perhaps not compassion but guilt, attempt at redemption – perhaps worried that some human lab really _had_ engineered the plague, even after Mordin had explained it. Either way, noble effort. Good to see.

Funny that Daniel himself had convinced Mordin of the humans' innocence, even if he didn't know it. That the plague was engineered was obvious. Galaxy mostly believed that diseases could not cross between species. Not true. Still, any grad student knew viruses were too dependent on precise genetic hijacking mechanisms to strike organisms that evolved in different biospheres. Simple rule from nature. Plague broke rule. Plague was a virus. Ergo, plague not from nature. Blaming humans not illogical for circumstantial reasons. True, humans not dying. True, human looters stealing from aliens, perhaps motive.

Not true: humans unaffected by virus. Days ago Mordin noticed Daniel's scent changed. Not bad, just different. On hunch, ran residue from Daniel's drinking glass through chromatogram. Indeed, foreign substance present. Further analysis revealed aromatic molecules containing abundant sulfur, relatively uncommon element in Earth life. Checked other humans in clinic. Also compounds in saliva and aerosolized in breath, varying degrees. Easily detectable with right technology. A curious thing. Harmless but curious. Excellent puzzle, took Mordin three days to figure out. Clue to the larger answer.

Plague was studying genetic variability, human included. Virus was a super-meric type, severity of symptoms correlated directly to viral integration load. Virus especially lytic in species with low variability – salarian, turian, asari. Virus spread through body. Transposition elements hyperactive. Respiratory system overwhelmed by nonsense mutations. Death followed quickly. Curing difficult – parthenogenic asari entirely extinct in district before Mordin had chance to help. Species with more variability – krogan, mostly – gave virus alternate sites to integrate. Less harmful lysogenic cycle initiated, death came slower. More robust genetics, slower death.

In humans, same goal, different method. Virus not capable of rapid transposition in human DNA. Integrations non destructive, virus propogation entirely lysogenic. Virus spread without harming host. Operon-carrying transposons produced, coded for genes to produce sulfur compounds. Similar to virus in nonhumans, more heterogeneous genetics let operon integrate more extensively, led to greater production of the sulfur compounds. Fascinating answer – proved plague designers trying to study genetic heterogeneity, in humans most of all. Other species simple yes no answer. Diverse or uniform. Die or live. In humans, quantitative. Measure sulfur compounds in breath easily with spectrophotometric scanners. See how human gene patterns distributed. Careful. Precise.

Clever. Fascinating. Opened new puzzles. Why study humans more carefully than other species? Answer still hidden. Who is taking measurements of human scent? Vorcha most likely candidate. Why? Answer still hidden.

Development of cure easy by comparison. Virus brilliantly engineered to integrate with several species' genetic molecules, but unlike natural virus, did not have millions of years to evolve resistance to treatment. Molecular inhibitor could bind to viral particles, prevent infection. Early versions already administered to Mordin himself and his staff. Now just a matter of testing, refinement, and deployment. So far, cure did not take except at massive doses. Needed system to ensure proper cure penetration. Solution had so far eluded him. More puzzles.

Mordin looked up suddenly. Panicked shouts were coming from the front rooms, almost drowned out by the emotionless chatter of security mechs.

"Mordin!" his chief guard, a human woman, shouted as she ran into his lab. She needn't have bothered. He was already moving, pistol in hand. His labcoat swirled impressively behind him as he marched to the clinic's entrance, the guard following. In front of the clinic, a half dozen Blue Suns had drawn their guns on his miniature army of mechs, which droned on and on, politely insisting the mercenaries vacate the premises. Mordin could barely hear anything over their noise, and, with a wave of his omnitool, muted them. The apparent leader of the Blue Suns lowered his weapon and stepped forward.

"Mordin Solus!" he bellowed.

"Yelling unnecessary," Mordin said calmly. "Know I am here. Have not hid from Suns in the past. Useless bravado. Attempting to intimidate us. Indicates you anticipate resistance, need compliance." He eyed the mercenaries carefully, mind working full speed. "Not displaying plague symptoms. Not here for medical help for selves. Heavily armed, preparing for combat. Would not wish to stop my work – plague affecting Suns too, and cure beneficial to all. Want something else. Money, perhaps?"

The mercenary commander's brow knitted as he attempted to keep up with Mordin's rapid-fire analysis. Mordin waited patiently, arms crossed.

"Money?" the commander asked after a moment. "No, you got us all wrong, Professor." He smiled widely, showing his teeth. "We ain't here to rob you. We just wanted to offer our services. Vorcha are getting closer, an' like you said, we'd hate to see your work interrupted. We thought you might want to _enlist_ us, make sure the violence don't find you." The commander grinned wryly. Behind him, his men brandished their guns in none-too-subtle threat gestures.

"Offer of protection," Mordin said, scratching his chin. "Protection obviously not needed. Clinic has mechs, guards. Quite safe. Not hidden – mechs easy to spot. Not an offer. Blackmail. Threaten violence if I do not pay. Free clinic obviously has little money – not about money. About balance of power. Suns losing control of district. Worried I am muscling in. People going to clinic for protection, not Suns. Suns losing control." He tapped his chin, thinking. "Only brought five guns. Obviously outnumber you here. Still, Blue Suns have extensive personnel in area. Refusal may lead to further violence. Agreement may interfere with work."

"Perhaps cure made more mobile with chelation," he mused, instantly changing the topic. "Coordinate cure onto metal particles, increase radius, allow for wider distribution. Perhaps through environmental systems." Everyone stared at him, brows raised in confusion. He continued on, unconcerned. "Good system. Safe. Cheap, if metal chosen properly. Still have to deal with electrostatics, however. Maybe take page from weaponized bio-agent delivery systems. Worth investigation, worth investigation."

He was still in mid sentence when he lifted an arm and fired a plasma dart into the nearest mercenary. The mercs looked on in shock, too offbalance by Mordin's distracting speech to react as their comrade suddenly burst into flames and fell screaming to the floor. By the time they'd raised their guns, Mordin had already ordered the mechs to open fire. "Violence against Blue Suns inevitable," he said, calmly firing his pistol into the commander's head. "Lethal surprise attack best option. Risky. Best option."

Once all the mercenaries were dead, Mordin holstered his gun. He nodded his head, satisfied. "Best option," he repeated.

With a swish of his coattails, he turned and headed for the lab. New ideas to try. New puzzles.

* * *

_Present..._

–

Omega was a terrible, terrible place. With everything that the dancer told him, Jacob was more and more sure that its denizens were not the sort of people Shepard should be recruiting.

"The raids have really stepped up," the asari said calmly, arching her lithe back until her head frills nearly touched her toes. "Suns lost another squad a few days ago, right in the middle of the street. They've been keeping to crowded areas, thinking Archangel won't risk civilians. Didn't matter. He killed them all without scratching anyone else." Jacob nodded, urging her to continue. "Blood Pack's taking it a step further, taking hostages to try to draw him out," she said.

Jacob hid his disgusted frown behind the lip of his drink for a moment. He didn't want to risk alienating the woman, and buried his disapproval under a false smile. "It work?" he asked, letting his gaze trace down her body so she wouldn't be able to see the lie in his eyes.

"Not yet. But smart money says it will eventually. Archangel's a busy man, whoever he is, but he'll come deal with them." The asari smiled evenly. Jacob wondered how much she cared about Archangel's crusade – she was certainly safe from mercenaries working in Aria's club, and Omega, as rule, did not seem to engender any worry outside of oneself. Still, Jacob had always believed there was goodness hidden anywhere you cared to look. To him, Archangel sounded like something of a thug. He was the talk of the station, loved and hated, and yet it was impossible for Jacob to get any kind of solid understanding of what he was. One person or several? Mercenary or champion of justice? Even his species had somehow evaded public knowledge.

"Well, sounds like they have their work cut out for them," he said neutrally.

"They do," the asari agreed. "They're terrified of him. Banding together, if you believe that, and recruiting for some massive strike. One man has all the mercenaries in Omega pissing themselves," she said, slithering boldly onto his lap. Jacob played his part in good humor, and even wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the electric tingle of her biotics tickling his fingertips through her azure skin. He'd never quite adopted the fascination the galaxy seemed to have with the asari. It wasn't like he didn't see their physical charms – far from it – but he'd been raised not to think of women that way if he could help it. It felt disrespectful to get too wrapped up in a woman's appearance, all the more so to suspend judgment on her character because she was gorgeous, so he did his best to avoid it.

Besides, he and Miranda weren't here to see the sights. They were here for information. Shepard had sent them away while he went upstairs to speak to Aria T'Loak. "Have fun, you two," he'd said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Get yourself a drink." Ostensibly it had been a gesture of peace on his part, to show Aria he meant no harm, but Jacob knew the truth. Shepard didn't trust them, and didn't want them privy to everything he learned. It was unfortunate, for Jacob wanted Shepard's trust very much – the Commander was everything Jacob aspired to be. Still, he understood trust was not a commodity to be thrown about recklessly – look what had happened with Wilson. He'd snapped a salute and departed without hesitation, dragging a much more reluctant Miranda along with him.

Now they were working the bar, trying to prove their usefulness by gathering what information they could. Jacob had never been to Omega before, but he'd seen dangerous bars like this time and time again since joining Cerberus. He was often sent to negotiate one unsavory deal or another. Much of Cerberus' activities had been on the far side of the law, but Jacob had a feeling the Illusive Man kept him around precisely _because_ he disapproved. Jacob was an honest man. He wasn't as devoted or talented as Miranda, but he was no steely-faced, impersonal secret agent. He was a good person, and people opened up to him in a way they never would with her.

Not that she was doing half bad herself. Jacob stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was across the room talking with two or three enrapt humans. Miranda was a good liar, but too arrogant and uptight to mingle like Jacob did. Her childhood had simply been too isolated for her to carry out a decent conversation that didn't involve reapers or cellular mutation or whatever. Of course, what she lacked in charisma she more than made up for in raw physical beauty, and Jacob could see practically every human eye in the bar (and even some inhuman ones) staring at her in ways he didn't quite like. He'd told himself hundreds of times that whatever had been between him and Miranda was over and that it was better that way, but watching the lecherous way men ogled her still filled him with cold anger.

He put that anger away for the good of the mission, like he always did. Those lecherous stares were getting them valuable information. Miranda didn't even have to act interested – she could bat her eyes and the dumbstruck men would tell her anything she wanted.

Still, Jacob was grateful when Shepard finally descended the staircase and headed for the club's exit. He paid the dancer and excused himself. He rejoined Miranda and Shepard on the Afterlife's front steps as the Commander tapped out a message to the Normandy.

"Well?" Miranda asked once Shepard had put away his omnitool.

"We're headed for a quarantine zone in Gozu district," he grunted, not bothering to look at them. Jacob frowned. This whole _station_ should have been a quarantine zone. "Blue Sun territory. Mordin's set up a clinic there. Apparently the whole district is a warzone, so be on your toes." Shepard said no more as he started towards the apartments.

"Commander," Jacob volunteered, "did Aria say anything about someone named Archangel?"

"Yes. Learn something about him?" Shepard asked. Jacob did not miss the hint of interest in his voice.

"Some kind of vigilante figure," Miranda explained. "He's been slaughtering the mercs here for months, and nobody's been able to get their hands on him." She paused. "Apparently the mercenaries are amassing a small army to deal with him, Blue Suns included. We should take advantage of their distraction. Get Dr. Solus and get out with a minimum of fuss."

"Or we could go save him," Shepard said. "Recruit him." Miranda looked frustrated.

"We do not need any more exposure here than absolutely necessary, Shepard," she said testily. "These mercenary groups have little love for Cerberus. They could make our mission to retrieve Dr. Solus very difficult if we let them catch wind of our arrival. We should not get involved in their gang wars with some crazed vigilante."

"Tough. I want to meet him. Can't do that if he's dead," Shepard said. He obviously wasn't about to be dissuaded. Jacob had the distinct impression Shepard mostly liked the idea of recruiting Archangel precisely because he _wasn't_ one of the Illusive Man's dossiers. Understandable, perhaps – he'd never trusted the Illusive Man either – but not worth getting killed over.

"Can we really trust someone we know so little about, Commander?" Jacob asked. "I'm tempted to agree with Miranda."

"You know what, guys?" Shepard asked, annoyed. "One of your goddamn dossiers is for a super-biotic psychopath currently serving life in a maximum security prison for ninety-eight counts of murder. Don't talk to me about trusting these people."

"Touche, Commander."

* * *

**Codex entry: Exogeni Corporation Presents: Aliens, Disease, and You – A Space Colonist's Guide to Basic Xeno-Hygiene, part 1**

Hello and welcome, **(name of colonist)**! If you're reading this, then let me be the first to welcome you to ExoGeni Corporation's Colonial Initiative Program! ExoGeni Corporation represents humanity's lifelong dream of reaching for the stars, with over fifty colonies in eighteen systems! Soon, you will be among the thousands of people living their dreams on the forefront of galactic colonization! Welcome to the future!

Your payment has been received and your application to join **(name of colony) **has been accepted! **(name of colony)** is a friendly, safe colony established by ExoGeni Corporation in **(year). (name of colony) **is famous for its **(claimtofame) **and its fun, carefree attitude. Whether you like to **(activity_1), (activity_2), **or even **(activity_3)**, **(name of colony)** is the colony for you!

But don't pack your things just yet! We humans aren't the only ones out there, you know! Hahaha! **(name of colony)** boasts small, permanent populations of several alien species, with others visiting every day! Interacting with your alien neighbors is a great way to learn about the galaxy, and make some great friends along the way. However, close contact with alien lifeforms can in rare cases be hazardous to your health or theirs. ExoGeni's top xenobiologists prepared this guide of handy tips to help you keep your family safe.

**The Basics:**

Just as on Earth, on colonies with mixed-species populations, disease can pose a constant threat. Xenobiologists tell us that bacteria and viruses represent the most successful life strategies in the galaxy, with analogs in every known xeno-biosphere! Though ExoGeni Corporation takes safety very seriously, some of these diseases may crop up. It is up to you to keep yourself safe.

"But wait," you say, "I heard on the extranet that humans can't catch alien diseases!"

Hahaha! Well, **(name of colonist),** you caught us! It's true, most diseases are too specific to cross from one planet's lifeforms to another. Viral, virion, and prion-like pathogens are considered completely non transmissible, so do not fear. So rest easy, Salarian Eye Rot will never touch you! However, bacterial and archean analogs have been known to adapt to cross species barriers.

"But wait," you protest, "I'm more closely related to an oak tree than to a salarian!"

Right again, **(name of colonist)**! Genetically you and the oak tree are like brothers, but there's not a lot of family resemblance! Functionally, however, you share remarkable similarity to many of the galaxy's sentient species. Take the salarian – both salarians and humans have closed circulatory systems, warm blood, fast metabolisms, unidirectional digestive systems, levo-amino acid based protein chemistry, and more. You're more similar than you think!

Turns out, some bacteria that live inside you can take advantage of this similarity and move into salarian hosts, or vice versa, with little difficulty. It's the miracle of evolution, and it happens every day! Just ask the poor saps fighting drug-resistant bugs back in the 21st century!

Interspecies diseases can, on rare occasions, be very severe, but just like with Earth bacteria, basic hygiene goes a long way towards avoiding illness.

--Always wash your hands several times a day.  
--Make sure your food is properly cleaned. Animal products, Earth-born or otherwise, should be thoroughly washed.  
--Do not go to work or school if you feel ill. If symptoms persist more than one standard day, seek medical attention.  
--Avoid individuals, human or alien, that appear sick.  
--Always follow posted public health advice  
--Most importantly, be sure to update your ExoGeni Corporation Immunobooster and Vaccine Cocktail Shots every year! Nothing says safety like ExoGeni!

**Species-specific health concerns:**

**Salarians –** Salarians are a race of fast-paced, warm-blooded amphibians. Despite their alien appearance, salarians are actually considered the most similar sentient species to humans, and thus represent the greatest health concern. Salarian food is biochemically compatible with humans, containing no known hyper-allergic threats (though of course individual allergies still apply). Be careful, for the reverse is not necessarily true – some rare human foods can cause anaphylactic shock in salarians. Always check nutrition information before sharing your food with any species. Salarian animal products should always be cooked thoroughly to avoid the transmission of rare enteric infections. Avoid contact with salarian saliva or eye-mucus – both contain commensal microorganisms that, in rare situations, can cause illness in humans.

**Asari – **Asari are not known to pose significant health threat to humans. Physiologically, they very closely resemble humans. Food and drink are considered entirely compatible with humans. There are no known diseases from the asari homeworld that can spread to humans, though some asari have been known to temporarily harbor STD's from other species.

**Batarian – **Batarians are many-eyed mammals, superficially similar to humans in many ways. Though they are based upon levo-amino acids like humans, several of these amino acids are not found naturally on earth, and thus some batarian foods can be dangerous for human consumption. Batarian food also tends to contain polysaccharide polymers that are indigestible to humans. Batarians often live in dense communities, fostering the spread of endemic infections. These infections are asymptomatic for batarians, but can in some cases cross to humans, where they are lethal. Fluid to fluid contact is strongly discouraged.

**Turian – **Turians, like the much rarer quarians, have a unique dextro-amino acid based biochemistry. Their proteins contain many of the same amino acids as humans', but mirrored. Ingesting these foreign amino acids can pose a significant allergenic threat. Turian food is considered completely incompatible to humans – 5-10% of cases of accidental ingestion lead to fatal hyperimmunological symptoms. There are no known turian diseases that can spread to humans.

**Elcor – **Due to evolving in a high-gravity environment, Elcor are physiologically very unique, and Dekuuna-born illnesses are not known to cross into humans. However, Elcor are the only known racemic-based races – their proteins contain both L and D form amino acids. This makes them a prime reservoir species, fostering the evolution of racemic-based diseases. Diseases specific to turians can infect elcor and, over time, evolve compatibility with L-based species. This was believed to be the source of the famous Twilight epidemic that swept the citadel in 1981 CE.

**Volus – **Volus cannot live in human-compatible environments without pressurized environment suits, and thus are not known to spread disease to humans. Contact with dead volus tissue should be avoided, however, as it is toxic to humans.

**Krogan – **Like the krogan themselves, krogan pathogens are rugged and adaptive. Luckily, many of these pathogens embody low-virulence strategies. Occasional disease transmission into other species tends to result in a rapid initial mortality wave followed by a loss of disease virulence as the pathogen evolves into a passive form. Still, direct krogan/human contact is discouraged. (Of course, most krogan consider physical contact a dire insult, so perhaps it need not be mentioned!).

**(name of colonist), **follow these tips and you (and your alien friends) will live long, healthy lives! For more health tips, proceed to part two of this guide or search the extranet for ExoGeni, keyword safety.

Good luck on **(name of colony)!**

–

* * *

**A/N:** So... Chapter 4!

Sorry for how long this took. This one actually has been close to done for a while, but I have this rule where I don't edit one chapter until the next chapter's first draft is done, and chapter five has been kicking my ass all week.

More mild continuity tweaks in this one, chief among them that, in this story, Archangel was not one of the Illusive Man's suggestions, but someone Shepard decided to go after himself.

Finally, I just wanted to express my thanks for all the great reviews I've gotten. They really make it so much more fun. I try to respond to all of them, but if I should happen to miss you, know that I appreciate it. Really.

Finally finally, love writing Mordin. Love it love it.


	5. Chapter 5, Profile, Kelly Chambers

**Profile – Kelly Chambers**

* * *

–

"Listen, Chambers..."

"Kelly."

"Whatever," Joker insisted, waving his hand. "If you're gonna sit up here you're gonna do it quietly. Your humming's getting optimism all over my dash."

Kelly grinned at the back of his head. Of all the crew, Jeff's dossier had been one of her favorites to read. It was full of colorful spots – mostly disciplinary reports describing the pilot's infamous smartassery – and Kelly could not help but admire the man. She was a believer in the power of being nice, and yet sometimes she could not help but wonder if life might be easier if she wasn't so darn compromising. She didn't think she was a _doormat_, per se, but Kelly had made a career (a lifestyle, even) out of being a comforting shoulder, a patient ear.

Oh well. Even if she was too nice to come up with good sarcasm of her own, there was no reason she couldn't secretly enjoy his. "I thought letting 'Joker' wallow in grumpiness was just too ironic," she said, batting her eyes coquettishly. "You could use some optimism."

"I'll stick with the wallowing, thanks," Joker said, suddenly very interested in one of his displays. Kelly saw through the deflection with ease. Poor Joker. She'd understood what kind of man he was before she'd gotten halfway down the first page, that first night she'd spent pouring through psych profiles, tabulating how she would help each crewmember with his or her own inner demons. Joker's personality was not atypical for the handicapped (which he certainly was) _or _the very gifted (which he certainly was also). He struggled with his condition, with his depression at all the things he couldn't do, by ensconcing himself away from it with walls of anger and sarcasm. He invested all his energy into flying, into being _the best, _because at the end of the day that was all he had. He'd never admit it, of course – he might not even know it himself – but Joker was lonely. Luckily it was nothing Kelly couldn't fix, given time. Her mind was already brimming with ideas of how to pull him out of his shell.

Kelly jumped in surprise as a sudden burst of machine gun fire shook through the cockpit.

"Left left left!" Shepard's voice rang out, tinny and mechanical through the ship's speakers. The microphones on Shepard's hardsuit picked up every thud and scrape of battle – the commander's frantic footsteps, the sizzle of shields shorting out. Kelly blanched as another stream of gunshots roared.

"Krogan incoming," Jacob's voice appeared. Kelly could hear the krogan's stomping footsteps.

"Pin it down, Miranda." More shots rang out, so loud they shook Kelly's head, and she unconsciously stepped a little closer to Joker.

Kelly had never liked violence. She had not been a psychologist for long, and yet already she had seen too much of the trauma that war inflicted on people. Depression, substance abuse, hysterics, nightmares. She remembered one of her colleague's patients, a soldier who'd helped storm the batarians at Torfan. One look in his empty eyes had told her all she needed to know about the costs of war.

She was not naïve. She knew violence was a part of Cerberus. A part of the galaxy. She was utterly convinced that every problem could be solved with the right conversation, but people weren't always willing to talk, and sometimes they had to die so that others could live. That was fair, that was right. And yet the man's eyes… just empty. She liked to imagine what they'd looked like before Torfan.

The krogan in the speakers laughed cruelly. There was a crash, and Shepard's team was scattering. Heart rate monitors in their suits blipped franticly on Joker's dashboard. Kelly nervously touched the back of his chair. "Sh-should we do something?" Joker looked up, unconcerned.

"Like what?"

"I don't-" there was an explosion, and a bark of triumph from the krogan, "I don't know. Send help?" Joker grinned at her frightened expression.

"Nah. Commander's been through worse than _this_ before. This is practically shore leave for Shepard."

"Fighting krogan?"

"Crazy, I know. I keep telling him he needs to find a hobby that involves fewer broken bones, but I'm biased. But, hey, whatever it takes to get the dude to _relax_, you know?"

Kelly found the pilot's levity disconcerting. There were more gunshots from the speakers, and the sound of Shepard's heavy breathing. "It sounds like he's losing," she said, her stomach feeling somewhere around knee-level, "doesn't it?" Joker shrugged, staring mildly at one of the displays.

"I've been listening to Shepard fight for a lot longer than you have, lady. I _know_ what him losing sounds like, and it sounds a whole lot worse than this. He's _fine_." A blue glow suddenly filled the cockpit as EDI materialized.

"Actually, Mr. Moreau, given the Commander's physical state, Ms. Chambers' concern may be well founded. Before departing, the Commander expressed reservations about his physical endurance and requested stimulants from Dr. Chakwas. Heuristic analysis of his gait is consistent with hampered reaction time and hand-eye coordination. Further, he is attempting to infiltrate an army of mercenaries without proper intel on enemy strength or disposition"

"Is that all?" Joker asked, frowning at her.

"You have the deck, Mr. Moreau. Shall I dispatch aid?"

Joker did not have to answer, as there was another peal of assault rifle fire followed by a final, heavy thud as the krogan hit the ground. Jacob let out a triumphant cheer. "Dead and done, Commander!"

Joker grinned condescendingly at Kelly and EDI.

"See? Killing krogan. Shore leave." He gestured up at one of his holographic monitors, where icons for Shepard, Jacob, and Miranda confirmed no serious injuries. "Now both of you stop nagging me," he said, adjusting his earbuds and staring pointedly to his controls. "Floating weightlessly in orbit takes all of my concentration."

–

Kelly listened to the hum of the elevator as she descended to the lower decks, trying futilely to get the sounds of gunshots and death out of her head. Eidetic memory was a useful skill for a psychologist to have – it let her give her patients her undivided attention, storing observations in her head until she had the chance to write them down – but it sure made it hard to sleep sometimes. Kelly struggled every day and night to reign in her overactive mind. It had gotten a great deal easier since she'd begun reading drellic philosophy and practicing some of their easier meditation techniques, but it remained a constant battle.

"EDI," she said, a thought occurring. EDI's spherical countenance appeared on the elevator console.

"Ms. Chambers."

"Did Shepard really ask for stimulants?"

"Yes." The elevator doors opened to the crew deck.

"That isn't like him," she mused, chewing on one finger. Everything she knew about Shepard (and that was a very great deal – his dossier was quite comprehensive and she'd memorized every word) pointed to the man's stubbornness, his refusal to accept anything he saw as a crutch. He was a man who insisted on owning his failures, on conquering them. It was not as if he'd _never_ used stims before – Kelly had seen a detailed medical record of every chemical he'd ever put in his body – and yet to show that weakness on a Cerberus ship, even to his friend Chakwas, was atypical. Whatever he'd wanted in Omega must have been important indeed.

"Huh," Kelly finally concluded, filing that thought away for later. "I'm worried about him, EDI. Would you mind keeping an eye on him when you're not torturing Joker?"

"I have more than enough surveillance capacity to watch Shepard and torture Mr. Moreau simultaneously," she said. Kelly grinned. It was astonishing, sometimes, just how expressive a computer could be.

"Even better," she said, gently patting EDI's head (her hand passed effortlessly through the blue light, but Kelly liked to think EDI felt it anyway). "Thanks." She stepped out of the elevator, all smiles as EDI blinked out of existence. She'd liked EDI from the minute she'd met her – machine or not, EDI had a great deal of personality. And she was so _cute_ with Joker it gave Kelly goosebumps. She let that thought amuse her on the way to the mess.

It was just after the early morning shift change, the liveliest part of the Normandy's artificial day, and a line of sleepy-eyed crewmembers shuffled past Gardner's station for breakfast, plastic gray trays in hand. She fell in line behind them. Gardner, dressed the part in his batter-stained white apron, greeted each of them enthusiastically as they filed by to get their meals. His eyes glittered with genuine friendliness.

"Chambers! Good to see you!" he roared when it was her turn. His smile stretched ear to ear as he ladled some kind of grain meal into her bowl and carefully poured her a glass of bright yellow juice. His movements were perfunctory, almost automatic as he added the final touches, a pair of foil-wrapped bars and a handful of what looked to be multicolored candies. He smiled proudly at her, but frowned when Kelly picked one of the 'candies' up to her eye and read the medical text printed across the side.

"Pills?" she asked. "That's new." Gardner buried his face in one meaty hand.

"Don't remind me," he said, leaning back against the rear counter. "That salarian and I had a long, friendly chat." Kelly raised her brow, curious. Mordin had only been on the ship a matter of hours, and he'd already introduced himself to the mess sergeant? "Seems my meals don't provide the proper _nutrition_," Gardner continued, waving his hand in irritation, "so we've gotto do some supplementing for crew health, he says." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "At least, I _think_ that's what he said. Twiggy little biter talks a mile a minute."

"All these pills?" Kelly asked. It was quite a pile.

"Doctor's orders," he said. "As if we don't know how to feed our own people. Puh." Kelly put the pill down and flashed him a smile.

"I'll talk to him, Rupert. See if I can't get him to back off." Rupert's jovial nature returned in a heartbeat.

"Ahh, Chambers, if I weren't covered in grease I'd give you a hug!" He spread his arms out wide.

"Maybe later," Kelly said, laughing as he snapped a salute with his ladle. She took her tray and took a seat at the end of one of the tables. She deftly unwrapped one of the breakfast bars – in her experience, the most palatable food the Normandy had available – and chewed it slowly, her fingers absently pushing her pills into little piles. She glanced over the other crewmembers as they ate. Most weren't in Cerberus to make friends, and shoveled down their meals like they hadn't eaten in days. Others – Hawthorne and Patel and Hadley – talked animatedly. Sometimes Kelly joined them. Sometimes she just dropped eaves. She felt no guilt – it was her job, after all. Gossip was the Normandy's human pulse, no less important than the power core or engines, and Kelly was no less a specialist than the engineers.

As if bidden by her thoughts, Gabby and Ken rounded the corner, making a beeline for Gardner's station. The cloud of argument that seemed to precede them everywhere they went echoed across the deck.

"No, no, no, Gabby, ya stupid woman," Ken was saying, "You're not listening. The apical couplings route through the _second_ hub. Last minute change in the diagrams. That way, they – thanks Gardner," he said, accepting his meal without missing a beat in his argument, "that way they make room for the local heatsinks on the nose-mounts. Brings the total to _fifteen._" Half of his food was gone by the time he'd sat next to Kelly.

"_Sixteen_, Kenneth," Gabby insisted, hopping forcefully onto the seat opposite her partner. "One more right between the impact attenuators." Neither of the engineers said a word to Kelly, which didn't bother her in the least. She loved watching the two quarrel – the ferocity of their words belied the obvious strength of their bond.

"The hell would they put a power dam between the attenuators?" Ken asked.

"Don't chew with your mouth full, Kenneth. You're spitting your food all over Kelly." Ken turned to stare at Kelly, apparently just now noticing her. She gave him a little wave. He rolled his eyes, but obligingly swallowed his current mouthful before continuing.

"Oh great," he said, waggling a finger at Gabby, then Kelly. "I see where this is going. Can't answer me so you start to team up. Gathering allies." Gabby smirked, pulling a roll of paper from her back pocket and spreading it out on the table. Kelly was no engineer, but she recognized the schematics of the Normandy.

"Don't need to team up, Kenneth," Gabby said, tracing her finger across the drawing. She tapped triumphantly near the ship's center. "Read it and weep." Ken grabbed the schematic and studied it intensely, stuffing one of the breakfast bars whole into his mouth.

"Breakin' out the schematics already? Don't know what you're tryin' to prove," he grumbled, eyes scanning. Gabby grinned at him like the argument was already won, and Ken's frown deepened as he sensed his own defeat. "I know my own trade. Wouldn't try an' tell you how the engines work, would I?"

"You tried this morning, Kenneth."

"That was different. That was…" he traced a finger around the spot Gabby had indicated and winced.

"Say it," Gabby ordered, looking enormously satisfied.

"Not sure what you're referring to, Gabby," Ken said, quietly rolling up the schematics. He was suddenly fascinated with picking up the last few crumbs of his breakfast.

"Saaaaaayyyyyy it," Gabby repeated, leaning in.

"Hey, look, pills! That's new." Ken turned around, away from Gabby's Cheshire cat smirk, and held up one of his pills, desperate to change the subject. "What's with the pills, Gardner?" Gardner shook his head sadly. Ken would get no help from him.

"Whatever it is she wants, got a feeling you should give it to her, boy." Ken frowned.

"Kelly!" he said, turning to her next. "Thoughts on the pills?" Kelly just shook her head, suppressing a grin to match Gabby's, and Ken's frown deepened. He hung his head, defeated. "Fat lot of help you guys are." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. I was wrong, you were right. Again."

"Ha!" Gabby laughed. "As always." She palmed Ken's head. "You should really know that by now, Kenneth."

"Yeah, yeah. Happy now?"

"You have no idea."

–

Kelly finished her meal (all of the pills included) and headed back to the main deck. She could hear Professor Solus in his lab as soon as she stepped off the elevator – the whirring of instruments, the clatter of reagents being reorganized, and the constant muttered observations of the salarian himself. She hesitated at the door for a moment. Mordin's psych profile made it clear he was a bit… eccentric. Perhaps she should let him have more time to adjust before introducing herself.

She quashed that thought as quickly as it appeared. Knowing Shepard's past company, she would never make it on his crew if she didn't abolish her fear of deadly aliens. Besides, she had been... close to aliens in the past. She would be the last person to let appearances get in the way of her job. She readied the blank pieces of paper in her mind, stepped forward until the science lab's steel door folded away into its frame, and entered.

"Professor Solus?" she asked. The salarian's head popped up from the far side of one of the workbenches. His bulging eyes blinked decadently, sizing her up. He nodded at her, his hands busy at work rearranging dozens of white bottles. In a flash he was done, and he rose to his not inconsiderable height.

"Human female," he said, striding towards her and mindlessly plucking a tiny glass vial from the counter. "One of twelve on the Normandy. Caucasian subtype, ectomesomorphic body structure. Approximately one-point-seven-five meters in height." His hands moved as quickly as his words as he screwed a plunger into the vial. "Three possibilities. Goldstein, Chambers, Curie."

_Salarian_, she jotted down in her mind. _One-point-nine-three meters in height_, she added, effortlessly recalling the stats from his dossier.

"Kelly Chambers," she said out loud, extending a hand to shake. He grabbed it gently, twisting it palm upwards.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, smiling amicably. "May I?"

"Yes," she agreed without thinking, brows knitted in confusion. Before the word was halfway out of her mouth, she felt the prick of a needle. The plunger gave a hiss of escaping air as it filled with bright red blood.

_Mordin is friendly and approachable, but his mannerisms are unusual, _her mind's pen wrote._ He appears to assume others follow his eccentricities as quickly as he does. Either that, or he does not care._

"Hello to you too," she said, watching the vial fill.

"Pardon rudeness," Mordin said. He pulled out the syringe and held it up to his eyes for a second before nodding, satisfied. "Testing for genetic markers. Just a moment." He released her hand and bustled to the opposite side of the lab, where he clicked her blood sample into a wide, expensive-looking canister. "Analytical ultracentrifuge," he explained, as if she knew what an analytical ultracentrifuge was. She just nodded absently, staring at the tiny drop of medigel the syringe had left glued over her puncture wound. Mordin pressed a button and the instrument started to whirr. He returned his attention to her.

"So good to meet you, Miss Chambers," he said, picking up a datapad. He glanced over it. "How do you feel?"

_Mordin's mind works quickly. He appears uncomfortable pursuing only a single task at once. Not unusual for a salarian._

"Alright. Yourself?"

"Very good, very good," Mordin confirmed, face still buried in his reading. His fingers tapped out a patina of keystrokes. "Eaten already today? Took your pills?"

"I took them. What were they?"

"Did not read? Ingredients clearly printed. Would never prescribe them otherwise." He sighed. "All human crewmembers given vitamin supplement outside military issue. Also hormones, coenzymes specialized for individual needs. Calcitropic hormones in your case, Miss Chambers. Very important." He looked up, and his already wide eyes widened at Kelly's disturbed expression. "Nothing to worry about!" he insisted, putting the datapad aside. "Assist calcium homeostasis. Combat osteoporotic bone loss. Noticed several risk factors in your medical records. Nothing unusual. Made same recommendation to other female crewmembers. Human female, gracile build. Reason enough to take steps. Never too careful."

_Mordin is clearly knowledgeable about human medicine and health. He seems to care for his patients' feelings._

"Thanks, I guess. I _do_ have all the standard gene mods though."

"Gene mods excellent for correcting flaws of nature. Human bone loss flaw of _society_, not nature. Bone loss because of poor nutrition, life in low-gravity environments. Outside adaptive constraints. Not a physiological shortcoming. Calcium supplements, calcitropic hormones, regular exercise best solution." He smiled and tapped between his billiard-sized eyes. "Doctor's orders." Kelly was surprised at how quickly he could put her at ease.

_Despite wearing a handgun in the lab, Mordin has a surprisingly tender bedside manner. Better than most human doctors._

"I was just coming to introduce myself, but you already know so much about me," she said, gesturing to the ultracentrifuge still processing her blood. Mordin nodded proudly.

"My job, Miss Chambers."

"Tell me about yourself."

"Ahh yes. Psychoanalysis time. Fair enough," Mordin said, scratching his chin. Kelly tried her best to conceal her surprise. Her classified posting as the ship's psychologist was not in her file, as far as she knew – it often made people nervous to know someone was watching them. Mordin seemed to pick up on her confusion. "Your stance," he explained, pointing at her knees. "Calculated to look conciliating to salarians. Subtle. Neck cocked, back straight, feet angled, knees slightly bent. Uncomfortable, unnatural for human physiology, but reads to salarian subconscious as gesture of peace. Engenders cooperation, trust. Implies extensive interspecies body language and diplomatic training. Ship psychologist most likely explanation. Visiting me to study temperament."

_Mordin is extremely intelligent and perceptive. Any duplicity is likely to be detected, though he does not appear easily offended. I wonder how he will get along with Miranda – two opinionated genii living on one ship could cause problems. Hopefully they can respect each others' expertise._

"Wow," Kelly said. She hadn't even realized she'd been using salarian body language – it had become almost second nature to her by now. "No secrets from you."

"Hope not," Mordin confirmed. "Not for long, anyway." He sat down on one of the stools, inviting Kelly to take the one next to him. "Hopefully can convince you I pose no threat. What would you like to know?"

"This isn't supposed to be an interview, Mordin. I really do just want to be your friend," she said. Mordin looked dubious. "Even if I am a psychologist. Let's talk about whatever you want to talk about."

"Fair enough," Mordin said, thinking. "Read my file, I assume?" He was babying her, trying to gauge what part of his life she was smart enough to follow. He meant well, but she'd have to fix that.

"Yes, Mannovai Ansilta Got Anna Ipso Solus Mordin," she said, reciting his full name. It had its desired effect – his brows raised and he smiled.

_Mordin respects intelligence in others._

"Impressive," he said. Kelly smiled proudly. "Familiar with work?"

"I read some of your papers," she said. She'd done it to try and find any clues to the salarian's personality, though she'd quickly been buried under reams of jargon and impossibly-complicated figures. "Much of your genetics work is way over my head, but I did get a kick out of what you wrote about indoctrination."

"Yes, yes. Proud of that one," Mordin said, smiling. "Good year of research. Mostly brain parasites from Antahe. Charming creatures, cause myriad of symptoms. Behavioral modification. Fascinating. Always enjoyed psychological sciences."

_Mordin clearly has a broad repertoire of interests, but makes efforts to steer conversation towards me, rather than towards himself._

"Really?" she asked, face brightening. "Me too. Though I may be biased."

"Indeed. Alien psychology excellent field. Each species, its own way of looking at the world. Brings unity within species. Causes tension with others. Even so, each individual different, capable of forming own conclusions, building own perspective. Outliers. Marvelously complex. Difficult to study. Good profession, Miss Chambers. Worthy of respect."

"I am surprised to hear you say that," she said, staring at the neat stacks of chemicals on the bench. "A lot of my science-minded friends don't think psychology demands much honor. Not a real science, they say."

"Foolishness," Mordin said, waving a hand. "Real science is in attitude, not subject. Approach to studying universe, not which part of universe studied. True, psychology prone to pseudoscientific explanations. Magic, souls. Inexplicable free will. Mistakes, but not of psychology. Psychology itself not diluted."

"I see," she said, a little disappointed. "Fond of the biochemical side of psychology, then?" She had heard the attitude before – the wish to carefully quantify everything, thought and feeling alike, into numbers. Particles. She rarely got along with people who believed as such, though she could see how it would be comforting in its simplicity.

"_Only_ side," Mordin said, grinning widely. "Patterns of chemicals. Neurotransmitters interacting in complicated arcs. Stimulus, response, stimulus, response. Tree of branching complexity reaching to infinity, controlled by dance of atoms. Beautiful."

_Mordin is fond of simple rules and internal consistency. He is dismissive of supernatural or otherwise non-empirical ideas, but passionate about what he considers beautiful. Philosophically, he is an extreme naturalist._

"But there is more to life than chemicals," she protested. "More to loving and caring and feeling and _living_."

"Of course," Mordin agreed. "Love, care, feeling, life – beautiful things. Does not mean too beautiful to explain naturalistically. No reason to invoke spirit, soul, heart. Flimsy, unacceptable explanations. Hard to explain, yes, but only better for it. Should be explored rationally."

"That viewpoint doesn't seem small to you? Does everything have to have an explanation?"

"Everything has explanation already," Mordin corrected. "Finding it up to us. Not found by calling it magic and ending inquiry. Found by studying objectively. Still, distinction only definitional. Changes nothing. Emotions you study no less important for it." He stared expectantly at her.

_Mordin is confident in his perspective – he does not appear to consider any alternatives._

"An analogy:" Mordin offered after a moment of silence, "Biology essentially chemistry. Chemistry essentially physics. Physics essentially math. Math essentially logic. Right then to say biology 'only' logic. Still, happily call myself _biologist_, not logician. Recognizing biology as descendent of logic does not reduce biology's importance. Recognizing emotion as descendent of biochemistry does not reduce emotion's importance."

"I don't know, Mordin," she said, though she admitted she could not see any particular hole in what he'd said. "It all sounds too clinical."

"Science not heartless," Mordin said, leaning back and staring at her over steepled fingers. "Scientists people too."

"I know that."

"Found cure for plague on Omega because it was interesting, true. Also because it helped. Science necessary. Offers much to the galaxy."

_Mordin considers himself a moral person and is quick to argue implications otherwise._

"I know that too, I just… I don't feel right calling everything just a big math equation."

"Compelling reason not to, then," Mordin said evenly. She looked at him, surprised. "Dabbled in irrational beliefs myself at times," he said, pointing to his tattoo with a bemused smile. "No other explanation for this. Later in life, too. Religions. Philosophies. Comforting to operate outside bounds of own cognitive limits. Offers freedom. Solace. Nothing wrong with it, just not science." His voice grew listless as he traced his metal-capped fingers over the ink on his forehead, clearly deep in thought. Kelly knew he spoke from experience, and she let him reminisce for a moment.

_Mordin has a surprising perspective on philosophy. I was wrong – he admits to struggling with his place in the galaxy in the past – I wonder what happened in his life to make him doubt the perspective he so strongly embraces now?_

Kelly and Mordin's thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful ding from across the room. In an instant, Mordin had popped to his feet. "Ultracentrifuge done," he exclaimed, beaming. He was all business again, his hands almost a blur as they unloaded the instrument and set it up for another run.

"How _did_ you get that tattoo?" Kelly asked, grinning.

"Was nine," he said, smiling at the memory. "Young. Rebellious. Worried about future. No breeding contract. Angry at society, clan, galaxy in general. Symbol is Lystheni iconography, synonymous with civil unrest. Too busy in the lab to join gang, getting gang tattoo seemed next best thing. Dalatress not amused. Did not help breeding prospects." He paused, breathing deep.

"Quite fetching though. Worth it."

* * *

**Codex entry: Scientist Salarian lyrics**

Scientist Salarian, a parody of the Major General song (humans Gilbert and Sullivan, 1879) was written in 2171 by famed Salarian lyricist and part-time structural biologist Jokus Kirosa. The song was later featured as part of the 2183 inaugural gala celebrating humanity's contributions to the galactic artistic community, where it was performed for the council alongside other classics like Francis Kitt's All-Elcor Hamlet and Leonin Trebin's musical comedy rendition of "Jaynestown".

–

I am the very model of a scientist Salarian  
I've studies species turian, asari, and batarian  
I'm quite good at genetics as a subset of biology  
Because I am an expert which I know is a tautology.

In four directions cardinal I know the blot routine-ry  
I problem-solve with tools and guns and even farm machinery.  
I'll sing your genome base to base, the T the A the C and G  
I'll solve your ailments be you sick or stroking out or seizure-y

Chorus:_  
He'll solve your ailments be you sick or stroking out or seizure-y!__  
He'll solve your ailments be you sick or stroking out or seizure-y!  
He'll solve your ailments be you sick or stroking out or seizure-seizure-y!_

My knowledge is prodigious though I'm stuffy and professor-y  
I'm fluent in the vorcha tongue and hanar luminescer-y  
My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian  
I am the very model of a scientist Salarian!

Chorus:  
_His xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian__  
He is the very model of a scientist salarian!_

While you're still eating breakfast I am studying catalysis  
My ideal date would finish with statistical analysis  
I've mastered optic instruments, reflective and refractory  
I don't begrudge the quarians their hypochondriact-ery

I've memorized – eidetic – all my patients' anamnesises.  
I've written papers, scores and scores, and that's not counting thesises!  
I'll toxify my enemies with nary an apology  
Then spend my weekends brushing up on elcor enzymology!

Chorus:  
_He spends his weekends brushing up on elcor enzymology!__  
He spends his weekends brushing up on elcor enzymology!  
He spends his weekends brushing up on elcor enzymolomology!_

When I complete a surgery I sign my name in suturing  
I've cut up more batarians than Torfan's famous butchering!  
If knowledge is a library than I'm its king librarian  
I am the very model of a scientist salarian!

Chorus:_  
If knowledge is a library than he's its king librarian__  
He is the very model of a scientist salarian!_

When I know all the acids be they levo, dextro rotamers,  
When I tell your asari child her genes are only sortof yours.  
When I read all the theories that my colleagues find heretical  
When I know all the finer points of therapies genetical  
When I could still cure cancer with my brain just halfway functioning.  
When I can fix mutating cells, the point, the nondisjunctioning!  
In short, when I've a smattering of transgenetic strategy  
You'll say another scientist has never yet been half of me!

Chorus:_  
You'll say another scientist has never yet been half of him!  
You'll say another scientist has never yet been half of him!  
You'll say another scientist has never yet been half been half of him!_

Though my skeptics call me mad and though they always try to censure me  
And even though I'm lucky if I live just half a century  
Even on my offdays I'd outdo the best Noverian  
I am the very model of a scientist salarian!

Chorus:_  
Even on his offdays he'd outdo the best Noverian  
He is the very model of a scientist salarian!_

–

**

* * *

A/N:** I am aware that Kelly is not, in general, a real well-liked character, though I am not entirely sure why that is. Regardless, I found her a really difficult character to write. I am trying to interpret her as simultaneously a bit of a ditzy slut and yet still a very intelligent woman. Perhaps that's just too much of a dissonance. In any case, I hope you liked my portrayal.

Chapter six is coming along really well. I'm proud of it so far and I look forward to sharing it in the next few days.

I've been a bit distracted lately with another ME related project I'm considering. I put a lot of thought into the science and detail of the ME universe and am contemplating the merits of trying to write it out comprehensively. It's something I'd want to argue with people on, however – maybe I should make a website for debating it and coming up with a reasonable fanon consensus. Or maybe I'll just do some of it myself. In any case, would anybody out there actually be interested in reading a huge block o' text about who, say, the turians are?

Finally, for those (like me) for whom 'anamnesis' is not a part of everyday vocabulary, it is a noun meaning medical history. I stumbled upon the word while working on the song and just had to use it. Also, I am aware the proper plural is 'anamneses', but I chalk it up to artistic license. Also also, while I fit in all the lines Mordin actually sings in the game, in the interest of keeping the original song's structure I had to split them up.


	6. Chapter 6, Integration, Garrus Vakarian

**Integration – Garrus Vakarian**

* * *

–

The forward battery suited him. It was hardly a fitting place to recover from a serious injury – cramped, no place to sit down, a little too hot – and yet Garrus felt he fit right in. The red glow of emergency lighting was sickly and unnatural, reflecting off of exposed pipes and equipment, but it felt like home. Felt like Omega. Garrus didn't like the idea – was that hellhole of a station really the only place that felt like home anymore? Did he need reminding of that awful place to be content? Was this really the home for an archangel?

He hadn't chosen the term himself. When he'd first heard it, he hadn't even known what it had meant, and in fact it had just upset him – he had gone to great lengths to keep as unnoticed as possible on Omega, and celebrity status, however soothing to his pride it might have been, would only complicate his movements. As the name had spread, however, he came to see its value. It gave a fantastical face to him, a dash of the supernatural to dig at his enemies' fears. Archangel incited the public in a way that Garrus never could. Archangel was loved and hated so passionately his name alone created ripples of change in a society that had stood static for centuries. When the first man had sought him out, not to kill him but to _join_ him – when Garrus realized the power that Archangel had to inspire hope – he looked up its meaning.

A character from human mythology. An executor of one of their most popular gods. As soon as he'd read it he'd been filled with regret, remembering Ashley Williams and her frequent sermons on the supernatural. He hadn't gotten along with the human, but he'd respected her, and he would regret always that he'd missed his chance to find some peace with her before she'd died on Virmire. He remembered overhearing her speak of her faith to Shepard from across the cargo bay, remembered the pride in her voice, and wondered if she would think him worthy of his new title. A turian as one of God's angels? He doubted it would go over well. He wasn't even sure if _he_ felt worthy – archangels were supposed to be forces of good, of purity, and Garrus' work was anything but pure.

But then again, despite the humans' constant ministrations, their god's work was hardly pure either. Garrus read passages from their bible, passages about violence and vengeance, about purging bad elements. About harsh punishments.

Perhaps Archangel was a fitting name after all. Either way, he'd not truly embraced it until the end, until he'd decided to cross the line, and that thought was the most shameful of all.

"Forgive me, Ashley," he muttered to the emptiness of the forward battery.

–

Shepard came to visit him. Garrus turned from the console, beady eyes sweeping over his former friend and leader. He hadn't gotten a chance to properly ponder the magnitude of Shepard's reappearance while fighting for his life on Omega, and it hit him full force now. The man silhouetted in the doorway looked exhausted but, aside from a few glowing scars criss-crossing his cheeks and arms, it was the same old Shepard. A dead man.

"How are you holding up, Garrus?" he asked, arms crossed. He seemed distant, somehow quieter. So perhaps he wasn't the same old Shepard. Garrus couldn't blame him.

"I am... going to make it," Garrus said, flexing his right mandible slightly to test the pain. "Yourself?"

"I'm going to make it too."

A silence passed between them, a new awkwardness as Garrus fought for the right words. What did you say to a friend who had died? A friend that died and then came back to life just in time to see you cross the line he'd taught you never to cross? A friend you let down, though you respected him more than anyone in the galaxy? A friend whose timely arrival was the only thing that stopped you from throwing your life away in a pointless bid for revenge? Garrus didn't know. Luckily, Shepard didn't seem in the mood to reminisce either. They'd both been through hell and back, and neither was eager to revisit it anytime soon.

"I wasn't talking about your injuries, Garrus," Shepard said after a minute.

"I know. Me neither." Shepard nodded his understanding. He entered the battery and leaned up against the railing, staring absently down the length of the Normandy's main guns.

"Tell me about Omega," Shepard said. He was trying. Starting that slow process of breaking down his allies' personal walls that was his specialty. Garrus remembered it well.

"Actually, Commander, I was thinking of doing a little work on these guns," Garrus said, changing the subject. This was not the place to talk. Not with a half-dozen hidden cameras listening in on their every word. He caught Shepard's gaze and flicked his eyes upwards, hoping the Commander would understand him. _We are being watched._ "Thought I'd take them apart, see how they work. I wanted to warn you, though. There's a _chance_ that I'll have to shut down all the peripheral electronics in the room. Scanners, consoles, that kind of thing. They generate electric fields that can interfere with the calibrations." He zoomed his headpiece display in and out, causing the reticle to dilate in his best approximation of a camera lens. Shepard nodded his understanding.

"Do what you have to do, Garrus," he said, patting Garrus' shrapnel-pocked shoulder. "Maybe while you're in there you'll get some ideas about how to upgrade them."

"Perhaps," Garrus agreed. "I still have a few contacts from my army days."

"Sounds good. We'll talk later." He stared seriously at Garrus, his gaze making it clear that they were only shelving this conversation temporarily.

"I'd like that, Shepard," Garrus said. He meant it.

"Good to have you aboard, Garrus," Shepard said, and left.

* * *

_Two weeks earlier…_

–

Vigilantism wasn't easy – Garrus and his team had made a name for themselves as some of the most destructively effective in the field, but Omega had seen their type before. Misguided acts of justice were as much a part of the station as crime was; an endless dance of opposing forces which Omega always won. Each time a do-gooder would rise up and kill a few criminals the station would press on them until they could go no further. Eventually, even the best of them would make a mistake, and they would be crushed under Omega's weight.

This trend had not been lost on Garrus. He'd known Archangel was a temporary position, but he'd done everything he could to make things last. His skills had kept him alive for months, alone, before he'd found a team. Of course, hiding on Omega was easy by yourself, hiding a whole squad was another matter entirely. Twelve soldiers. All different backgrounds. And no room for mistakes. Garrus had been convinced he could do it, however, convinced he could turn his ragtag collection of specialists into a team worthy of the late Commander Shepard. From the very beginning, they'd had rules.

One of the rules: Never fight a straight fight. Straight fights let luck into the equation. Luck will eventually let you down, so find ways not to rely on it. That was one of the big ones, and one of the hardest to teach. Some of his squad had been ready to take on all of Omega all at once, and it had taken a great deal of effort before Garrus had gotten across to them that vigilantism was primarily a waiting game.

Garrus ignored that rule now. His assault rifle kicked in his hands and one of the mercenaries crumpled. Next. He paid no heed to the sound of projectiles sizzling against his shields, ignored the flash of tracer rounds as he fired again, taking off another assailant's head. Next. A third mercenary stepped too close and Garrus slammed the butt of his rifle down on the man's skull, dropping him. Next. One more, across the room, took a concussive round to the chest and slammed against the wall with an audible crunch. He fell to the floor and did not move.

Garrus whirled around, frantically scanning for his next target as the echoes of the fight dissipated and silence filled the room. At length he stopped and lowered his gun, panting heavily while the realization that he was still alive caught up to him. Four more mercenaries down. Archangel still standing. He was getting tired – he hadn't slept more than an hour or two since his team had been killed – and yet the mercs _still_ couldn't kill him. He ignored the bullet he'd taken in the flank and the steady patter of his blue blood against the floor.

One of the mercs – the one he'd struck with his gun – groaned from the floor, and Garrus was on him in an instant. The human cried out in strangled surprise as bloody talons wrapped around his throat and hefted him a meter off the floor. His eyes bulged and he blinked stupidly, the concussion Garrus had given him already muddying his thoughts. Garrus' rage pulsed through his veins as the human tried clumsily to get away. Some part of him – the part still back in the warehouse, still looking at the remains of his teammates – wanted to just _squeeze_ and be done with it.

Another rule: Do what you have to do, but remember you're one of the good guys.

Garrus set the man down, propping him against the wall as he scooped up the man's fallen submachine gun and thrust it under his chin.

"Where is the batarian? The one with one foot?" he growled, pressing the barrel forcefully into the man's throat. The man stared up at him blearily, blood trickling down his face.

"The hell are you?" he mumbled.

"I'm Archangel," Garrus said. He flicked his head towards the shiny golden symbol emblazoned on his right arm. He'd worn it less than a week now, ever since the night he'd discovered his team's bodies. He'd made it himself, cut from a piece of ceremonial salarian armor they'd liberated from the Blue Suns. It was a badge of remembrance. He was Archangel, and he would wear it in his team's honor until he met his end. "Where is he?"

"Archangel's… dead."

"I AM ARCHANGEL!" Garrus roared, slamming a foot down into the man's stomach. He yelped and spit a mouthful of blood into his lap. Garrus stared fiercely down at the man, daring him to disagree. He was silent. "Tell me where the batarian is and I will let you live," Garrus continued after a moment, voice quiet. The SMG trembled in his hands a centimeter from the man's throat. The man licked his reddened lips and swallowed nervously.

"S…Sutka? He's right in the," he waved his hand limply behind him, "right in the next room with Tarak. Down the hall." He glanced up, hopeful.

Garrus pulled the trigger and the man's head disappeared under a hail of bullets. His body slumped down with a sickening squish.

One of the good guys…

His next move decided, Garrus worked quickly. He had little doubt Sutka and Tarak had heard his approach and were scrambling to prepare for him – if he ran in blind, he'd die before he'd even caught a glimpse of them. If he wanted them to die with him, he would have to be smart.

Another rule: Use whatever you can find.

Vigilantism didn't pay well, but luckily Omega's markets overflowed with everything they had needed and then some. All they had had to do was wait until someone tried to smuggle it, and then take it for themselves. Expensive guns, omni tools, armor, medical equipment – anything you wanted – someone on Omega was trying to smuggle it somewhere it didn't belong. They'd had a strict no-stealing-from-the-innocent policy, but it was hardly necessary.

Garrus drew a pair of omni-directional mines from a compartment on his belt. Small, easy to conceal, and absolutely lethal at short range, the versatile little explosives had been a godsend ever since Garrus and his team had lifted them from an Eclipse warehouse a few weeks ago. Though Garrus' mind tried desperately to forget the memory of Mek explaining their proper use (wild hand gesticulations included), his hands remembered perfectly and worked without guidance, plugging the detonators into the panel on the blast door that led to Sutka and Tarak. A couple quick commands on his omni tool later and he'd jury-rigged a deadly booby trap, set to go off on the first man stupid enough to come looking for him. A subtle whine filled the air as he armed both explosives and took shelter behind a large metal shipping container across the room, sniper rifle trained on the door.

He finally set to tending his injuries as he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Hardly half an hour later, he heard muffled voices from the far end of the door and the tell tale click of the panel being activated. He grit his sharp teeth.

There was a pregnant delay as the door slid into its frame and four armed mercenaries stepped into the room. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still. The mines went off with tremendous report, filling the room with a flash of blinding light and the shocked screams of the mercenaries as they were consumed by the blast. There was an ear-splitting rending of metal as the doorframe blasted apart, sending great fragments of steel crashing in every direction.

The sound of the explosion trailed off, leaving behind the tinkle of shrapnel raining down across the room. Garrus poked his head up to take a look - the mercenaries were nowhere to be seen. He heard shouting from beyond the door as more Suns came running to investigate, and steeled himself.

He leapt up and started firing. His first shot found an unprepared mercenary square in the sternum. He reloaded and fired again – a turian twisted and died in a spiral of blue blood. The mercenaries opened fire, sending projectiles raining down upon him, but Garrus did not flinch. He poured his anger into his weapon, firing over and over again and feeling his resolve only harden as each target fell. He did not hear his shields short out, nor the sound of a bullet grazing his arm.

The most important rule they'd had: Don't die. Never fight a losing battle. Dying for the cause was not as good as living for the cause.

Garrus knew his team would be ashamed of him for breaking this rule, but he didn't care.

* * *

_Presently..._

–

Garrus' exhaustion felt almost tangible. He'd slept very little in the three weeks since his team's death. He'd fought and fought and fought, hunting and killing his friends' murderers, with little keeping him going but a shipload of confiscated stimulants and the desire to take as many of the bastards down with him as he could. He'd never admitted it to himself, but he'd wanted to die, and he'd very nearly gotten his wish. If Shepard hadn't shown up, he would have. His life, his skills wasted. He'd have died for the cause.

Shepard gave him a second chance to live for the cause. He owed the Commander more than his life.

Despite his exhaustion, Garrus did not rest until he'd found a way to deactivate the hidden cameras without tripping any alarms. It was almost astonishing how simple the answer turned out to be. As soon as he had it, he stretched himself out on the floor to sleep.

Shepard would want him rested.

–

Garrus' talon clenched and the Blue Sun died, his upper half sent spiraling through the air, pouring its contents out across Korlus' acid-stained ground.

"The heavy is down," he said, calmly pressing a new heat sink into his rifle and taking aim again.

"Jacob, hit my mark." Shepard's voice was quieter than it used to be, back when they'd fought against Saren and the geth. Garrus supposed the man's enthusiasm had run out. Garrus felt the same. Empty. Drained. He was doing better than Shepard, however – he could hear the commander's exhausted panting through his headset already. The man was exhausted and they'd been on Korlus less than an hour. Still, Shepard had not lost any of his talent as a squad leader – he still knew exactly what point to strike, what point to cover. Out of shape or not, he set the pace of battle and kept it where he wanted it, and Garrus fell into the familiar rhythm like he'd never left. The mercenaries didn't stand a chance.

Garrus watched from the rear of the battlefield as the corona of blue enveloped one of the mercenaries attempting to flank Shepard. The man flailed helplessly in midair for a moment before Jacob silenced his cries with a quick shotgun blast. Garrus remembered Liara's biotics – Jacob did not compare. He said nothing.

"Garrus, see if you can deal with our friend up on that ledge."

He could and did.

"Down," he said. He heard Jacob's sound of amused disbelief.

"Daaaamn. Nice shot, Garrus."

Garrus still said nothing. There was a time in his life that he'd enjoyed the look of a target falling in his scope and the rush of competing with his allies for the most spectacular kills. In the military it was practically all they did – most of them had even hooked cameras onto their scopes after the tales had started to get too far-fetched. His superiors had actively encouraged the game – it fostered unit cohesion and relieved stress – but C-Sec had frowned upon it (and on any modification to their gear), and so he'd let it drop until Wrex had dragged him back into it on the first Normandy. He remembered being amazed how much fun it had been, even if the moody krogan inevitably won. It had been a contest among friends.

Jacob was not his friend. The game had died for good with the first Normandy.

"Sometimes you get lucky," Shepard said after a moment, parroting Garrus' words from back on the Citadel. "Ten to one says he misses the next one." Garrus could hear the smile on the commander's face. Some part of him wanted to smile back, to give it another try, but that part was quickly buried under the guilt and anger that had been his constant companion since the loss of his team. He had to stay focused. This wasn't a game. No one – not even Shepard – was going to cost him his focus again.

"Let's keep going."

* * *

_Three weeks earlier..._

–

Garrus had seen the spots turn as he worked his way back towards his base of operations. He was in a bad mood already – Sidonis' job had dragged him all the way to Treiza district, lugging a twenty pound sniper rifle and forty pounds of armor along for the ride, only for him to arrive and find the meeting place abandoned. No Sidonis, no drugrunners. Nothing.

Mistakes happened, but now, as he stalked his way through the looming shadows of a dozen empty warehouses towards the one where he and his team were holed up this week, an ominous feeling tugged at his scales. He couldn't point a talon at any one thing to make him so worried, but he was utterly convinced all the same. The spots had turned (Shepard would have said it was the calm before the storm, but he had never been to Palaven to see the heatwaves that followed any change in the sun's face). Something... terrible had happened. He quickened his pace, his heart beat rising.

By the time he'd reached home base (the Warehome, as Mek had sarcastically dubbed it), he was so convinced of disaster that the sight of blood spattered across one of the windows did not slow him in the slightest. He tore up the stairs as fast as his long legs could carry him, assault rifle loaded and ready.

He kicked in the door.

Garrus was a turian, his already steely nerves having been hardened by decades of violent life and rigid society, or he might have been paralyzed at the sight that greeted him. Everything was destroyed. Crates of weapons and supplies – neatly stacked when he'd left a few hours earlier – lied splintered, their contents scattered across the room. Ovurd's terminal was ruined, split down the center by a line of bullet holes. Windows struck by biotic attacks had been pulverized into powder, which hung about the room like a fresh coat of snow.

Then there were the bodies. Tam, Mek, Ovurd. The whole team, along with thirty or forty Blue Suns, armored head to toe in blue and white. Only one remained on his feet: a human merc was picking his way through the wreckage for valuable salvage, several of the team's nicer guns already strapped to his back.

Garrus snapped. He roared in fury and charged, striking the man like a runaway maglev train. The stunned merc's shout of surprise was cut short in a flash as Garrus yanked a blade from his boot and buried it to the hilt in the man's neck. He gurgled and died, adding to the mountains of dead already piled about, but Garrus did not stay to watch.

Ovurd was still alive. Garrus found the grouchy tech expert underneath a pair of dead mercs. He tossed them aside with a strength he rarely had.

"Ovurd!" he shouted, leaning down and patting the batarian's cheek. There was no response. Ovurd's breath was coming in shallow spurts, each exhalation sending little rivulets of blood from his nostrils. A pair of bulletholes oozed in his chest. Garrus worked quickly, tearing a strip from Ovurd's shirt, wadding it up, and pressing it into the wounds. Scanning the remains of the room, he quickly found one of their med kits and drew out a few syringes of medigel. He injected them as fast as he could, listened to the quiet crackling sound as they started to work, and yet Ovurd's breath grew shorter and shorter.

Still Garrus worked to save him, gently dragging him back to prop him against the crates they had once used as a makeshift couch. Even as he tried to focus on his shaking hands, however, his mind worked furiously. Sidonis. Sidonis had done this. That was why he'd sounded so off, so nervous. He'd dragged Garrus away so the Suns could move in on the rest of the team. Sidonis had betrayed them.

_No._

"Garrus?" a voice from across the room, "Is that you?"

Garrus sprang up and hurtled himself to the source of the voice. "Grey! Are you alright?" he asked, desperately ignoring the small lake of blood around her. He grabbed the human woman's hand and squeezed it as tight as he dared. She smiled weakly.

"No," she said. She was a great deal more lucid than Ovurd, but her skin had gone almost white as her life leaked out around her. "No, can't say that I am."

_Sidonis had done this._

Garrus was at a loss for words. "Wh... what happened?"

"They found us," she said simply. "We made them pay for it, though." Grey didn't boast lightly – she didn't look like much (the other humans on the team had often joked that she looked like their grandmother) – and yet she was one of the best snipers Garrus had ever seen. Her dinged rifle – a gift from her late husband, she'd once told him – laid at her side along with the five or six men it had killed in its final efforts to protect her. It would never fire again.

_Sidonis._

"We need to get you and Ovurd help," Garrus said. "Can you walk?"

"No. No," she said, voice stern. "We're done. You get out of here before they come back."

"I am _not_ leaving you behind."

"Yes you _are._ I did not do all of this so you could get yourself killed. We all knew how this would end. We all knew our parts in this. _You're_ the Archangel. Omega needs you." From across the room, Ovurd gave a deathly gurgle.

"It isn't about me," Garrus protested.

Grey gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "It is," she said, eyes filled with pity. "They think you're dead. Tam told them he was Archangel. It... wasn't pretty. But you should have seen the look in his eyes. He was damn proud to do it in your place." Garrus felt overcome with shame. He cast a glance towards Tam's headless body. Tam had been a mountain among turians, easily twice Garrus' weight. He'd been quiet in life, shy to the point of seeming unkind and yet imperviously honorable and free of fear. A model turian. And now he was quiet again, courtesy of the Blue Suns. They weren't fit to clean his talons, and yet soon his head would hang from their wall.

_Sidonis._

"Go, Garrus," Grey said. Her voice sounded quiet and distant already. "Save the galaxy." Her eyes closed, and Garrus felt her grip slacken.

"Grey?" he asked, fearful. "Grey!?" He wouldn't dare shake her. She said nothing. Horrified, Garrus stood, looking for something he could use as a stretcher. He would get her to help. He _would._

"Garrus?" She was back.

"Grey," he said, new hope returning to his eyes. "Give me a second, I'll find some kind of gurney." She ignored him.

"Is Siddy alright?"

_Sidonis._

Garrus was silent, paralyzed by indecision. The weight of Sidonis' betrayal hit him full force. Sidonis. His friend. His ally. Betrayed them. It was almost too horrible for words. He looked at Grey – the last seconds of her life seemed to slow to a crawl as she stared hopefully up at him. She deserved the truth. But could Garrus give it to her?

"Yes, he escaped," he said, hating himself. It was what Shepard would have done. Grey smiled contently.

"Good," she said, and she was gone forever.

–

By the time Garrus had dragged his team's bodies into the most honorable positions he could, Ovurd had died. Garrus put him with the rest, his omnitool set gently atop his sternum.

He sat amongst the mess for a long time, mind empty except for thoughts of Sidonis.

* * *

_Presently..._

–

Garrus stared imperiously across folded hands. The smell of grease was heavy in the air. Forgotten on the floor in front of him were the hundreds of components he'd removed from the guns and neatly stacked. He'd understood their workings with little difficulty – most of the Normandy's weapons technology descended from turian designs, and he'd seen them all in his fifteen years in the military.

He let the pieces lay. His mind was quiet, just listening to the pulse of pain in his right mandible. He considered going to Chakwas to get some more painkillers, but quickly dismissed the thought. His team was dead, and it was his fault. He could endure a few superficial wounds without the comfort of medication.

His thoughts turned to Shepard again. He knew the commander would be coming for him again soon. Shepard was too damn nice for his own good – he wasn't going to let Garrus stew in his guilt like he deserved. Poor bastard had been killed and brought back to life and still wanted to put his own demons on hold to fix Garrus'. Garrus sighed. Shepard was a good friend. His only friend these days, if he was honest.

As if on cue, the door opened.

"Shepard," Garrus said, lifting his head, then stopped as Engineer Donnelly entered the room, tripping over one of the gun pieces on the floor.

"What... the... _hell?"_ Donnelly asked no one in particular. His eyes widened as they noticed the parts that littered the floor. He stooped to pick up a piece of the targeting computer, holding it up to his eyes and giving a little gasp of crushing disbelief. His brows narrowed and he cast an angry glare on Garrus. "What did ya do!?" he demanded, shaking the piece in Garrus' face.

"Research," Garrus replied.

"Wonderful! Jus' goddamn wonderful!" Ken shouted, tossing his hands up in exasperation and surveying the mess. "I come up here investigatin' a power short and I find the main guns spread across the goddamn ground!? It's gonna take me three days to get this put back together! Just so the turian could satisfy his curiosity!" Garrus rolled his eyes.

"I'm not an idiot. I spent six years as a gunnery officer aboard a Phalanx-frigate in the turian fleet."

"Well congratulations!" Ken said sarcastically, vaulting over the railing to stare into the disassembled barrels. "What if we came under attack!?" He leaned down into the barrel, his angry mutters echoing through its length.

"We would make do with the Normandy's other armament," Garrus said calmly. "I informed Commander Shepard and Joker that I would be taking them offline. I don't owe you an apology." Ken popped back out of the barrel, face red and oil-stained, and climbed back over the railing.

"Oh yes you do. I'm the ship's engineer and you're a bloody merc. Keep your hands off the ship before you get us all killed." Garrus' eyes narrowed in anger.

"I am not a merc," he said darkly. "And I've been on the Normandy a lot longer than you have."

"I don't care if you're the President of Earth," Donnelly responded, unconcerned over Garrus' mounting rage. He clicked two of the gun components back together. "Leave the ship maintenance to me. If I need someone murdered in the streets I'll give you a call." Garrus felt his temper flare. The rage he'd been quietly carrying for weeks came surging to the surface, fanned to an inferno by Sidonis' betrayal.

"Take that back."

"Yeah? Or what?"

Garrus felt the man's jaw break under his fist.

–

Shepard _did_ come to visit him that evening, as he put the final pieces back into the guns. He looked up at the sound of the door. Shepard stood, framed in the light and looking as haggard as ever.

"Commander, I apologize for my behavior," he said immediately, climbing over the railing. "I... I lost my temper. It was inappropriate. I'm not trying to make things difficult for you. I just... I couldn't st-" Shepard raised a hand, silencing him.

"I'm not here to yell at you, Garrus," he said quietly, taking a seat on the bench. Garrus frowned.

"You should be," he said. "There are no excuses for my actions."

"Don't beat yourself up about it. Tension are high. Joker told me that he and Donnelly have been fighting all week. Incidentally, he asked me to give you this." Shepard was straight-faced as he held out a little folded piece of paper. "Hit 'em with the stick" was written across the top, just above a short list of names of crewmembers Joker wanted beat up next. Garrus set it aside.

"Is Donnelly alright?"

"He's fine. He's got a bruise to rival yours, but Chakwas said he'll be good as new in a few days." Garrus looked ashamedly at his feet. "Speaking of which," Shepard said, "did you fix the… uh," he flicked his eyes up to the hidden cameras.

"Yes, Commander," Garrus said, eager to change the subject. "Turns out what I told you was right on target. When I set the guns into their calibration mode all the peripherals shut down automatically so they don't throw off the calibrations. So as long as I keep the calibration mode on, the cameras stay offline and nobody's the wiser." Shepard raised an eyebrow.

"But won't someone get suspicious if you spend the whole mission calibrating?" Garrus shook his head.

"First rule of space gunnery, Shepard. You can never be too calibrated." Shepard shrugged, accepting that explanation.

They fell silent. It was a few minutes before Shepard broke the quiet again. "What's up with you, Garrus?" he asked, staring lazily into the ceiling.

"I'm not depressed," Garrus said, a little too forcefully.

"Didn't say you were. But you're not yourself either. What's eating you?"

"Don't worry about me Commander," Garrus said, dodging the question. "I'll do my job."

"I _am_ worried about you. You're my friend. Someone I trust. You don't know how much it means to me to have you here. Having you sniping on Korlus? Christ, Garrus, They didn't know what hit them." Garrus smirked.

"Yes, well, at least one of us has been keeping in shape since Ilos."

"Kiss my ass, Garrus. I'm working on it." They laughed, and Garrus suddenly felt fifty pounds lighter.

"It's... good to be here, Shepard," he said. "I just... It's going to take me some time. I was part of a team on Omega..." He hung his head. "It didn't end well."

"Perhaps someday you'll tell me about it." Garrus frowned. Part of him wanted to share the story right now – it would feel good to get it off his chest. But another part knew exactly what Shepard would say. That it wasn't his fault. That he had done the right thing. That his team's death was a horrible accident and that he had to let it go. True things, perhaps. Things he needed to hear, definitely. But they weren't things he could hear yet. His team deserved better.

"I will," he promised. "Maybe when you tell me what it's like to die."

"It's a deal. We'll save the galaxy again first, and then we'll share our sob stories until we're all cried out." They fell silent. Garrus had always respected that about the Commander – unlike many of his species, he was content sometimes to just let things remain unsaid. After a few minutes, Garrus opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm going to lie low for a while," Garrus said (he'd already heard that Engineer Daniels had not taken his mauling of her partner in good humor at all). "But tell Donnelly I put his guns back together."

"Tell him yourself. I have a job for you." Garrus raised a plated brow, curious. Shepard folded his arms across his chest. "I don't trust Cerberus, Garrus," he said simply.

"Well neither do I, but I can hardly judge them after the things I've done."

"You can and you should. They're bad people. They are planning to betray us and I am going to be prepared for them when they do."

"If that day comes I'll be at your back, Commander," Garrus promised, not quite seeing where this was going.

"Good. Here's what I want you to do, then. I want you to apologize to Donnelly. I am assigning you two to rework some of our electrical systems together. Ostensibly it's to force you to get along, but really I want you to find out what you can about him. Keep your eyes and ears open. See what you can get out of the ship's computers when you're working on them. I want to know what Cerberus is up to." He gestured up to the ceiling. "That camera? You saw it right away. I don't have the head for that kind of stuff, but you do, Garrus. I need you on my side. Can you do that for me?"

Garrus frowned. He did not relish the idea of working alongside Donnelly, even if it was for a greater cause. Still, his answer was obvious. "Of course I can, Commander."

"Good." Shepard stood up. "And try not to punch him again, would you?" He opened the door to leave.

"Commander?" Garrus said. Shepard stopped. "This is really just an attempt to get poor, traumatized Garrus to come out of his shell and make a friend, isn't it?" Shepard shook his head.

"No," he said seriously. "It is an attempt to get poor, traumatized Garrus to find me the information I need to survive." He smiled. "Though if you _do_ accidentally make a friend besides me, I promise I won't be jealous."

–

That night, Garrus was trying to think up what he'd say to the engineer when the door opened behind him. To Garrus' surprise, Donnelly walked in. An ugly bruise peeked out from around the edges of the bandage on his jaw. He gave a bemused smile and thrust a bottle into Garrus' hands.

"Here," He muttered. Garrus lifted it to his eyes. "It's just water," Ken said sheepishly. "Ship doesn't have any turian beer on board, so it'll have to do." He opened his own bottle and took a swig, wincing at the pain in his jaw.

"Shepard put you up to this?" Garrus asked, opening the water.

"No, not really," Ken said, leaning on the railing to avoid looking at him. "Now shut up or this'll be even harder." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Garrus. Some of the things I said... They were uncalled for. I know you're not a merc. Hell, you were on the team that stopped Saren. I shouldn't have doubted you."

"I'm... sorry too," Garrus admitted. They fell silent, enjoying their drinks to the hum of the main guns.

"So. Phalanx class, huh?" Ken asked after a moment. "You ever get to fire the X-T81 main guns?"

"Only once in combat. Batarian pirate ship."

"Bet it was pretty wicked." Garrus smirked.

"Pretty 'wicked' indeed," he admitted, remembering the way the plumes of escaping air had glowed on the pirate ship's hull after the T81's fragmentation slugs had exploded outwards.

"They let women in the turian army?" Ken asked. He stared pointedly away from Garrus, trying to act nonchalant, but even Garrus recognized the embarrassed blush on his cheeks.

"..._Really?_" he asked, dubious.

"Yes really. Never seen a Her-ian. Curious."

"Well... yes," Garrus said after a moment. "There was this one scout in my unit. Beautiful."

"What did she look like?"

"Narrow waist," Garrus said, letting his mind take him back. Ken nodded his approval. "Blue eyes and clan markings, like mine."

"Sexy," Ken said.

"Mandibles sharp enough to cut glass," Garrus said, picturing said mandibles vividly. He hadn't thought about her in years – she really had been a gorgeous creature.

"Err... okay," Ken said, a little hesitant. "Love a girl with sexy mandibles." They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Garrus shook his head in disbelief. Was he actually enjoying Ken's company? Damn Shepard and his manipulations. He took another sip of his water – it was delicious.

Ken clapped him roughly on one armored shoulder. "Keep goin',"

* * *

–

**Codex Entry: Turian Vision**

–

Like humans, turians are a visual species, and put a great deal of psychological weight on how objects appear. The specifics and evolution of their vision, however, differ greatly from that of humans, a fact to which evolutionary psychologists attribute many of the cultural differences between the two species.

Human vision is believed to descend primarily from a need to recognize and distinguish brightly colored fruits. As brains expanded and the earliest primate cultures developed, the need for recognizing individual faces and the subtle muscle movements that made up facial expressions became tantamount for surviving in the social landscape. These factors are believed to have influenced the evolution of primate vision, which tends to recognize colors over a broad spectrum and is adapted for noticing small, relatively-static details.

Environmental constraints on Palaven, however, forced turians down very different evolutionary pathways. High levels of solar radiation pressured most Palaveni lifeforms into developing thick, protective surfaces, filled with an array of metallic pigments to help reflect high-energy radiation. Turian eyes are no exception – on Palaven, soft tissues like human eyes would develop cataracts in a matter of days, and so turian eyes are small and hard, loaded with many of the same light-reflecting pigments as the skin, and sunken within bony sockets. The pigments block most incoming light and limit the turians' color vision – turians cannot see red or purple.

Like humans, turian vision is stereoscopic, giving them excellent depth perception. Unlike humans, however, who are believed to have inherited stereoscopic vision from early primates who used it to judge the distance between branches in their arboreal habitats, turian stereoscopy is a result of their role as apex predators. Turian vision can be compared in many ways to Earth's birds of prey – they have phenomenal distance vision that can track movement from kilometers away. Their low-light vision is also quite sharp, in large part due to their eyes' reflective pigments which, like the reflective tapetums in the eyes of many Earth vertebrates, help efficiently channel light through the eye.

Turians' armored bodies had another important evolutionary consequence for their psychology. Unlike humans, whose soft faces convey a range of expression through the interaction of dozens of small muscles working in concert, turians have relatively stiff, inflexible faces. Expression in turians is therefore typically conveyed through motion, not only of the head but of the motile mandibles on either side of the face. Turian eyes process motion very quickly (in fact, computer displays with refresh rates designed for other species often look choppy to turian observers), and the difference between a happy and sad turian may often be found only in the precise speed at which they flick their mandibles. Needless to say, turians and more soft-bodied sentients often have considerable difficulty recognizing one another's expressions.

The evolution of turian vision has several key ramifications for their culture and society. First, their motion-attuned sight, along with fast, predatory reflexes, makes them naturally talented marksmen, and turian snipers and gunners are regarded as the galaxy's most accurate.

More broadly, turians, like humans and other visual species, tend to put a great deal of cultural stock in appearances. Unlike humans, however, who use visual cues as a means of differentiating individuals, turians use visual cues as a means of integrating themselves into larger groups. Turians are tetraploid organisms, phenotypically stable and thus, visually, are much less variable than individuals of other races. That said, turians tend to have a very acute awareness of their own appearances and their dedication to looking like they are _supposed_ to look can often be mistaken for vanity. Part of this visual fixation may descend from their armored plates – mature plates are predominantly dead tissue and thus virtually devoid of feeling, and thus adult turians require frequent careful preening to check themselves for hidden injuries and to keep themselves clean.

Turians are, while not necessarily xenophobic, susceptible to visual stereotypes. Most turians believe that an individual's traits can be reasonably understood just by knowing to which groups the individual belongs. Thus, skin colors (which in turians relates to the individual's origin – young turians raised in heavy sunlight will develop darker hides than turians raised aboard ships, though after adolescence the color is essentially permanent) and clan markings are considered not only badges of pride but badges of integration. Turians – especially adult turians – who lack tattoos or otherwise violate the visual norms of turian culture are often stigmatized and thus turian parents often get their children tattooed at a very young age. This tendency towards visual stereotyping is the chief reason most turians rarely remove their armor – armor is identified so tightly with their militant society that many turians feel uncomfortable (or even dishonest) wearing anything else.

Turian fixation on looking 'correct' means that any body modification – earrings and other jewelry, body paint, off-color clothing, non-clan-tattoos, etc – is very rare, except in turian societies where it has become normalized as part of the widely-accepted turian appearance. Though there are no laws expressly forbidding visual accouterments, they are typically seen as signs of rebellion and a lack of commitment to duty. It goes without saying, then, that turians who _do_ choose to alter their appearance or associate themselves with some particular mark or logo generally take these symbols incredibly seriously – turians see their appearance as inextricably attached to their identity and only violate the social norms after considerable thought.

Though turians often go to great pains to fulfill the visual status quo, there are also stigmas against hiding individual differences. Scars, especially, are considered to be a part of their wearer's identity, and concealing them in order to fit in is generally seen as tantamount to lying, or at least self-delusion.

Turians, like humans, appreciate visual arts. Owing to their motion- and distance-based, rather than detail- and color-based, vision, they tend to be especially fond of dance, animation, and other moving arts, and are easily impressed by scale (like, for instance, massive architecture). They have very little interest in so-called abstract art, however, and tend only to appreciate the beauty in real objects that have some spectacular, functional awesomeness.

–

* * *

**A/N: **So, here's chapter 6. Garrus is one of my favorite characters and this chapter was a lot of fun to write. I have to give huge thanks to my new beta, Angurvddel, who has traded an utterly-excessive number of emails full of Mass Effect speculation with me already, and was of great help in deciding what fit the story and what didn't. (He/she actually convinced me to CUT a scene, which I'm sure you authors out there know is an awful hard conclusion to arrive at when you wrote it). I am aware (again, my new beta told me) that this codex entry is a bit drier than previous ones. My apologies for that - I tried to think up something more gimmicky but it just wasn't coming to me, so I decided to share some of what I've been writing about turians for my other, _even nerdier_ project. Hopefully it isn't too boring to get through.

On Donnelly's possible OOCness - Originally I planned to have Garrus maul Hawthorne or one of the other nearly-nameless crewmembers, so I could depict them as a bigot without stepping on a beloved personality. But then I decided Ken needed more screen time anyway and I ended up conjuring up a whole Garrus-And-Ken-As-Bros subplot. So it's Ken. What can I say, he had a bad day.

So, almost everybody who reviewed chapter 5 voiced their support for Kelly Chambers, so I take what I said back. That said, I feel more confident in saying that Chapter 7's main POV is not a super popular character, and, as it turns out, is even harder to write than Kelly! Yippiee! Stay tuned. It'll go up when I finish chapter 8.


	7. Chapter 7, Immaculate, Miranda Lawson

**Immaculate – Miranda Lawson**

**

* * *

**–

The clock on her console clicked, precisely four hours after she'd gone to sleep, and Miranda was awake. Her movements were smooth as she stood and turned to make the bed. In her mind's eye, she saw the clock counting down on the morning routine she'd programmed into it years ago. Eighteen seconds to make the bed.

The clock clicked just as she finished tugging the last wrinkle out of place. Twenty-one seconds to stretch.

She stretched, her long, graceful body seeming to melt between each pose before holding like a statue. Her mind remained blissfully empty, her muscles having long since memorized the length of each movement.

The clock clicked. Forty-four seconds to dress. Her Cerberus uniform slipped on easily, skin-tight over her already skin-tight gray underclothes. As flimsy as the suit looked, it was actually remarkably strong protection, weaved out of smart fibers inlaid with circuitry and tiny, hexagonal packets of a non-Newtonian fluid armor. It wasn't a hardsuit, by any means, but she and the Illusive Man had agreed that the effect her perfect body had on people was too valuable to stifle beneath bulky ceramic plates. Everything about her outfit was calculated for maximum utility – even the geometric patterns were chosen to show her sculpted curves with the greatest detail. She pulled her boots and gloves on and fastened her belts.

The clock clicked again, and she was on the floor. Her exercises were as fluid and mechanical as the rest of her morning routine. One hundred crunches, each repetition done perfectly, without the tiniest wavering. One hundred lunges. One hundred leg lifts. No mart of her body or mind was idle - tiny flickers of blue lanced on her fingertips as her hands moved from mnemonic to mnemonic. She counted down the time in her head, the spaces between each second filled with furious thinking and mental exercises. She calmly muttered the credit value of dozens of the galaxy's currencies, then moved on to the names and titles of the two-hundred most influential humans. The elements were next, followed by a few sentences in eight languages, one after another.

The clock clicked again exactly as her mental count reached zero, and Miranda rolled onto her hands. Her body was stock still as she lifted it straight up, heels together, and held it for a few seconds before lowering it again. In her head she moved onto math, calling to mind the critical equations for FTL travel, economic formulas, and everything in between. It was the same lengthy mantra she'd recited every morning for fifteen years – one of the few remnants of her old life she still carried.

She could not stop. She'd tried, desperately tried, but the compulsions were too strong. It never changed. She _always_ did it without fail. She _always_ finished each part at the appropriate second. She did not improve, or try to – she was already there. Already _perfect_. The few girls her age she'd known as a child had called her a robot.

There was a knock at her door. When she did not answer the door opened and Jacob entered. She stared at him, upside-down, her lips still silently moving around each muttered fact. She always hated people to see her exercising – she understood the purpose of her morning mantra, how it kept her mind and body well-honed, and yet it had always felt like a weakness to her, like something of which she should be ashamed. True to his nature, though, Jacob did not take the opportunity to look at the shapely woman standing on her fingertips in front of him, but crossed his arms and waited, eyes politely averted and an amused smile on his face. Miranda was grateful for his respect.

The clock finally clicked and rolled over into a new countdown (arm pulls and the names of every capital ship in the Alliance fleet) until Miranda shut it off with a lightning-quick jab of her finger. It had taken quite some time before she was able to stop the program between modules (and she still couldn't bring herself to quit _during_ an exercise in progress). Her muscles burned the tiniest bit, and a thin film of sweat clung to her skin as she finally acknowledged Jacob's presence. He met her gaze. "Sorry, Miranda," he said, looking genuinely regretful. "I know you don't like to be interrupted."

"I'm fine," she said, trying and failing to brush the dreadnoughts out of her mind. "What do you need?"

_SSV Elbrus, SSV Everest, SSV Fuji, SSV Aconcagua…_

Jacob must have noticed her lips moving, for he shook his head. He looked almost sorry for her. "What is it this time?" he asked, ignoring her question.

_SSV Kilimanjaro, SSV Orizaba, SSV Shasta, SSV Tai Shan…_

"Ships," she said. Unbidden, her mind moved onto the cruisers.

_SSV Alexandria, SSV Almadabad, SSV Cairo, SSV Cape Town, SSV Chicago, SSV Dallas, SSV Emden, SSV Frankfurt, SSV Istanbul, SSV Jakarta…_

"Sorry," he repeated. At her impatient look, he continued. "I was just wondering where you were. We're going after Okeer. Shepard's already at the shuttle." Miranda frowned.

"He didn't tell me…" In between ship names, her mind reeled with possibilities. Surely he wasn't so short-sighted that he'd shelve _her. _She felt her anger spike. Of course he was. _Goddamnit, Shepard. _

"Maybe he forgot?" Jacob said hopefully. Miranda rolled her eyes and began to pace in a short circle. Her mental list sped up.

_SSV Koln, SSV Lagos, SSV Madrid, SSV Manila, SSV Montreal, SSV Moscow, SSV Napoli, SSV New Delhi, SSV Osaka, SSV Perugia_…

"Well… Let's go talk to him," Jacob said. Miranda's fists curled but she continued to pace. Her mind was filled with quiet anger, but she _had_ to finish the ships. At least to the end of the cruisers.

_Recife Salvador Santiago Sao Paulo Seoul Shanghai Singapore Sydney Tokyo Warsaw._

As soon as she finished (she imagined the clock clicking over in her head) she stormed out of the room, Jacob on her heels. The whole crew deck seemed to smell her mood and she was given a wide berth.

"The ships thing?" Jacob said from behind her. "Not good for you." Miranda just scoffed as she pressed the elevator control panel.

"It was never about being good for me."

* * *

_12 days previously…_

–

Tank Mother awoke and the Voice resumed. The krogan was waiting for her. As soon as he heard the telltale clicking signs that always preceded a new lesson flicker across his mind he started to shiver in anticipation. Today would surely be the day he would be given a name. Surely. He grinned as sensations flooded his mind, blocking out the blue-green haze that normally filled his whole world. The electrodes placed across his body began their work and his limbs started to twitch.

A creature appeared before his eyes. Instantly the krogan tried to categorize it, analyze the threat it presented. It was not an alien he'd seen before. Somewhat larger and more muscular than an asari, but thinner than most batarians. It was armored, he noted. Holding an assault rifle. The krogan wondered fleetingly if the Voice was proud, but as usual the Voice only talked, never listened. The picture gained detail as the Voice went on. Human, it said. Enemy, it said. The krogan's mind was suddenly filled with instruction for how to kill it. The thin part below the round part at the top (neck, the Voice supplied) was easily broken. A suitable impact would kill the creature, or at least paralyze it. If he was strong enough. If he was the perfect krogan. The krogan felt his muscles contracting of their own accord, building strength, and imagined the human's neck cracking between his fingers. The Voice continued, low and rumbling, as it explained more ways to kill a human. Later it would click and change topics. It never stopped to let the krogan ask questions, never waited to see if he understood. Just constant whispering in his head.

The krogan kept everything in his memory as well as he could, doing his best to mask his disappointment as each click heralded a new imprint but still no name. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

Miranda entered the hangar, mind awash with angry possibilities. The roar of one of the cranes echoed drowned out the chatter of a dozen crewmembers bustling about with crates of equipment. Miranda pushed past them without a second look, leaving Jacob apologizing in her wake.

Shepard was leaned up against the side of the Kodiak, fully armored and ready for battle. His assault rifle gleamed on his back.

"I don't know, Mordin!" he was shouting over the noise. "I've never operated equipment like this before!"

"Said you wanted me to remain here, continue investigating neutralization options," Mordin's voice boomed back, amplified by the sound equipment behind his head. "But if needed, could accompany you and operate." The salarian emerged from the shuttle and headed for a toolbox atop a nearby crate.

Shepard shook his head. "No no, we need those countermeasures ASAP." Mordin sighed audibly as he selected his tool of choice.

"Then scanning your responsibility," he said, "Okeer's technology may be immobile. May refuse to part with it. Will want accurate scans either way."

"Alright, alright. We'll figure it out." Shepard said, standing up straight as he caught sight of Miranda. His expression hardened.

"Commander, I-" Miranda said, managing to restrain her anger and sound civil. He held up a hand, silencing her as their newest squad member approached, arms laden with a stack of heavy boxes.

"Garrus, you got it?" Shepard asked, approaching the turian. Miranda seethed quietly as the commander helped get the equipment loaded. He was putting her on hold, asserting his dominance by showing that he could make her wait. She knew the move well – the Illusive Man did it to her all the time – and she hated it. Part of her wanted to haul off and punch the arrogant man in the face, but she restrained herself. She had to play nice. The Illusive Man wanted her to get along with Shepard and so she would try.

Damn if he wasn't making it hard, though.

"That's the last of it, Commander," Garrus said once they had everything aboard. The turian's beady eyes flitted to Miranda's face for a moment. His plated face betrayed no emotion that Miranda could recognize, but she felt her anger rising all the same.

"Good. Hop in and see what you can figure out about those scanners. We leave in five. Jacob!" he said, turning. Jacob stepped forward, saluting. "Make sure Hawthorne has everything ready to fly us down there. I want this mission high and tight. No AA guns involved."

"Aye aye, Commander," Jacob said. He bustled off to do Shepard's bidding, but not before tossing Miranda a pitying glance. She just glared.

"Commander," she repeated, voice impatient. At length, Shepard turned back to face her, a mockingly innocent look on his face. "Is there a reason you did not request my assistance on Korlus?"

"Yeah, Miranda, yeah there is," he said, absently picking at a peeling seal on his wrist. "I heard you were working up a report for your _boss_. Thought you could use some extra time to finish it." He glared defiantly at her.

"You thought no such thing," she said darkly. "I complete my obligations to the Illusive Man on my own time, not yours."

"Just being cautious, Miranda. I wouldn't want him to be misinformed," Shepard said, crossing his arms across his chest. His eyes were starting to heal up, the blue-gray color they'd held in life starting to reappear over the glowing red of machinery beneath, and Miranda caught a momentary glimpse of just who the man in front of her had been. She was almost caught off balance by the steel in his gaze. "Are you sure you've told him _everything?" _Shepard asked, frowning. "How many times I've gone to the bathroom? I lost count a few days ago but I'm sure you can check your cameras."

"Listen, Shepard," Miranda said, changing tactics. "Whatever your personal feelings for me or for Cerberus, you have a responsibility to act in humanity's best interests. My skills are valuable and you are foolish to refuse them." Shepard shook his head, not buying it.

"Your skills are irrelevant if you aren't on my side," he said, continuing to stare her down. Daring her to disagree. He was looking better today – still a bit pale, but there was an intensity to him Miranda hadn't seen before. This was the savior of the Citadel. This was the man who'd talked Saren Arterius into killing himself. The man who'd been to the ends of the galaxy and back, who'd already stopped the first wave of a reaper invasion before Cerberus even knew they existed. A man who right now was angry with her. Anyone else might have been paralyzed by the idea. "I don't have time to argue this, Miranda," Shepard said. "Korlus' day is half over and we need to get moving." He stepped up into the shuttle. "We'll talk when I get back.

His eyes never left her as he palmed the close door button. _Look what I can do_, they said. _I'm in charge._ Miranda just stared back, breathing deep to bottle her anger up as best she could. Now was not the time to blow up. They both had responsibilities to humanity – and at least _she _took hers more seriously than petty disagreements.

"Look on the bright side!" Shepard called over the sound of the door hydraulics. "This'll give you something new for your report. Say hi to Tim for me!" The shuttle closed with a noisy hiss, cutting off any possible retort. Miranda's fists clenched in rage.

"Please evacuate the hangar," EDI's voice calmly intoned. "Shuttle is departing."

* * *

_7 days previously…_

–

Tank Mother had been asleep a long time, and the krogan worried. The silence unnerved him. It left his mind open to fill with his own thoughts instead of the Voice, and his own thoughts did not appeal. They were tentative, filled with holes that he had no way to fill. Instead of seeing what the Voice wanted him to see, he saw only the algae-encrusted glass surface of his world and the murky shapes moving beyond. He heard the gentle bubbles and the chatter of machines in his ears. Usually he slept through the moments of silence and awoke to the Voice but now… only silence in his head.

He wondered what his name was. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.

Without warning the Voice sounded, and the krogan's eyes opened wide. The Voice was… different. Muffled and quiet, from somewhere out beyond the edge of the world, from out among the shapes. It rang in his liquid-clogged ears, not in his head like usual. But it was the Voice – he would recognize it anywhere. He tried to channel all his focus into hearing, into making out the words.

Imperfect. Hesitance, something about hesitance, and Warlord Moro. The Voice sounded angry, filled with frustration. Disappointed. The krogan felt terrible. Had _he _disappointed the Voice? Was _he_ imperfect?

_Imperfect._

Another voice, quieter, higher than the one he knew so well. Frightened. He could not make out the words. The two voices shouted at one another before quieting. The krogan's mind reeled to keep up. His hearts beat faster.

His ears suddenly filled with a horrible, horrible noise. The droning of machines, louder beyond metaphor than anything he'd heard in his short life. It roared in his head and he reflexively cried out, choking. He stared up and watched in terror as the bluish liquid that had cradled him his entire existence began to recede. His world was shrinking. The goo drained away rapidly, dipping below his head, and he began to cough violently. Emptiness filled his lungs. Dazzling lights and sounds appeared, blaring in his brain.

The liquid was gone, and the world opened up. Some fleeting part of the krogan's mind told him he had to stand up, had to use his… legs… but it was too late and he collapsed, falling out of Tank Mother. A solid surface met him without mercy. He did not move.

"Get him out of my lab," the Voice growled in his ears. Louder, more pure and real than he'd ever heard it. It was beautiful. "He is unworthy to sit next to my masterpiece. My… _perfect_ krogan."

As he felt the many hands grab him and drag him away, the krogan looked back into the bright emptiness that was this new world and saw his Tank Mother, split open and empty. Dead. Next to her, another Tank Mother. Filled with another krogan. The _perfect_ krogan.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

The Illusive Man's image puffed quietly on the last embers of his cigarette. Miranda, standing in the ship's communicator room, remained silent, watching him think. Waiting for him to say something.

"Unfortunate," he concluded finally.

"_Unfortunate?" _Miranda asked, exasperated by his calmness. "Shepard's shutting me out! What are we going to do?"

"Unfortunate," the Illusive Man repeated quietly, staring at her with his glittering eyes, "but not entirely unforeseen. We never expected this would be easy." Miranda just smoldered. "We wanted Shepard back, just as he was, and we got him."

"_You _wanted him back just as he was. If you had just let me implant the control devices-" The Illusive Man actually stood up.

"No!" he barked, cutting her off. "Enough, Miranda. That argument is over." Miranda quieted, and at length the Illusive Man retook his seat. She glowered at the Man. For a moment, with his face obscured by the shadows of his office, he looked very much like her father. Both of them were tall men, sharply dressed and handsome. And both expected her loyalty without question.

The Illusive Man crushed out his cigarette and produced another from a hidden pocket. He lit it and took a decadent puff, closing his eyes and savoring as he exhaled.

Her father had never smoked. Her father had never drank, or caroused, or misspent money. Her father had never married and Miranda could count the number of times she'd seen him with a woman at all on one hand. Her father had practically been a machine, utterly devoted to power and wealth. Never a mind for the happiness it could bring. Miranda could not remember ever seeing her father smile when he wasn't acting in front of a guest. Miranda could not deny that she was similar – she was practically a clone, after all. She hated waste. Hedonism. Yet somehow the Illusive Man's weakness for pleasure made him better than her father.

One of many reasons he was.

Miranda was no fool – she knew the Illusive Man and her father were the same in many ways. She wasn't stupid enough to think The Illusive Man cared any more for her than her father had. They both saw her as a tool and little more, whatever they might say to her. And yet there was something altogether unsatisfying about being a tool for someone so small as her father. He was close-minded, ignorant of the bigger picture. His universe extended no further than the reach of his own arms. Miranda was too good for him, her talents wasted on his arrogant goals. A tool could not be smarter than its master.

So she served the Illusive Man. Everything her father was, the Illusive Man was ten times more. His quiet intellect dwarfed the rest of the human race, made them all into tools for his use. Miranda had long ago understood she _was _a tool. All people were, to their own capacities, and the fact that Miranda was a _great_ tool changed nothing. Great tools had a place in the universe, serving great causes, and The Illusive Man's was the greatest of causes. In his hands was where she belonged.

The Illusive Man spoke at length. "Garrus Vakarian," he said, "can we trust him?"

"I haven't spoken with him. You'd have to ask Chambers."

"I'm asking you. Can we allow him to remain on the Normandy?" Miranda was quiet for a moment, thinking.

"We have to," she said at length. "He's devoted to Shepard and a damn sight smarter than the doctor or that idiot pilot, so letting him stay will be making our job that much more difficult. But Shepard needs him. I don't think we can risk acting against him, even in secret, if we ever want Shepard's allegiance."

"You're not worried about a turian on board?"

"The turians have their uses," she said. "They aren't unpredictable. They have a place. As long as we keep that place in mind, there is no reason we can't get along." Miranda had never considered herself _racist _per se, in that racism implied that discrimination was unjustified. Whatever the turians were, they weren't humans, and so Miranda was quite justified in placing their concerns secondary. She had no more interest in purposefully harming aliens than in harming the weapon on her belt, but she knew where they belonged in her mind. Gun, ship, turian. Things.

The Illusive Man looked satisfied with that answer, and nodded. "I expect you to continue working on Shepard," he said. "The control device you mentioned – we aren't in disagreement over the results, only the method. We need Shepard on our side. Eventually."

"What am I supposed to do?" Miranda asked, annoyed.

"You know very well what you're supposed to do. You're just going to have to work harder at it. You're used to working on men way beneath your league. Shepard's an actual challenge, but not an insurmountable one. He isn't going to fall for it as easy, but it doesn't mean he won't fall for it at all. You just need to try harder."

"He hates me already," she said despondently. "I'm afraid charisma isn't one of my stronger skills."

"Men are predictable, Miranda. You know that. Shepard may be the best man out there, but he's still just a man. Play things right and he'll do whatever you want."

"It'll be hard to play things at all if he won't let me near him."

"Figure it out. Give him time. _Let _him be angry at you for now. Do things right and he'll be eating out of your palm in no time." He gave her a look that from any other man would seem lecherous. His face, though, was chilling. Devoid of feeling. Like he was trying and failing to stoop to her level and connect with her by pretending he found her attractive like other men did.

She frowned, crossing her arms uncomfortably. There was an awkward silence.

"If you can't do it, Chambers will," the Man said after a moment, voice suddenly serious. His hand moved to hover over the control panel on his chair, the sign that the conversation was about to end. "By the way, in light of Shepard's apparent soft spot for ruthless mercenary-killers," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I've forwarded you a new dossier. A human bounty hunter. I've arranged for his loyalty and explained the situation. Consider him on your side." His fingers twitched.

"Don't disappoint me, Miranda."

* * *

_6 days previously…_

–

His name was Allele. That would be his name. He'd heard the quiet, second voice, the voice of the blue woman (asari, his mind corrected) say it as he'd been dragged to Jedore's training ground and fitted with armor. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded right on his tongue. Allele.

"Pay attention to me when I'm speaking to you, krogan," Jedore snapped. He stared dourly at her from behind his new helmet, ignoring her bluster. He liked the helmet. It darkened things. Reminded him of Tank Mother. Still, in the darkness it was easy to forget to… breathe. He was still getting used to that.

Jedore paced around the room like a predator, waving her gun haphazardly about. The five or six guards behind her followed her movements with worried looks on their faces. Allele ignored them all, staring instead at the other krogan – helmeted and armored just as he was – standing stoically in the back of the room. Even if they could not see each other's eyes, there was a silent understanding between them. Allele wondered what the other krogan's name was. He would ask if he got the chance, and perhaps offer one of the other words the asari had said if they were needed (though he was saving some of these words for special occasions.)

Jedore stared up at Allele, eyes squinting in anger. She was small, even for a human, but her temper vast. The Voice had said there were many like her in the galaxy. Individuals who believed they were greater than they were. People who did not know they were weak, imperfect. "As I was saying," Jedore said, waving her gun under Allele's chin, "you are now a soldier in my army. You will follow my commands."

Allele ignored her. The suggestion was patently ridiculous – if the Voice had made nothing else clear, it was that _everything_ hinged on strength. Strength was worthiness, strength was perfection, and Jedore was a puffing little creature of arrogance and greed, a nuisance to be stomped on and ignored. She was unworthy of him, imperfect though he might be. Allele looked to the other krogan again, wondered what he thought of Jedore.

_Go for the turian first,_ the Voice seemed to whisper into his memories. _Grab the crest and yank forwards. Tear his gun from his grip and toss his body into the two humans. Shoot Jedore, then take cover behind the console. Survive. Survive. Kill them to survive._

Allele's arms were shackled behind his back. The commands were impossible. "Jedore does not have an army," he said instead, parroting the Voice.

Jedore glared at him, furious. "You will refer to me as Commander or Warlord only!" she shouted. "You are my soldier! You are my property! You must prove yourself to me! WARLORD." Beneath his helm, Allele's eyes widened and his blood began to boil with an anger he could not explain. That word… it was not hers to have. It was _no_ alien's to have.

Jedore and her entourage could not smell the two krogans' fury fill the room. One of her guards, however, shook his head in exasperation and spoke. "Come on, Jedore. They obviously don't like that word. We haven't gotten even one of them to say it. It isn't going to happen."

"Silence!" she snapped. "It will follow my commands or it will die!"

Jedore was not a large woman, and the impact of six hundred pounds of imperfect krogan sent her flying into the wall. Shouts of anger and surprise came from every direction as the two krogan attacked, upending consoles and stampeding over guards. Allele's brain seemed to explode with anger. He would _not_ die. He would _survive. _

Gunfire rang out. Allele felt the shots tear through his body, and blackness took him.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

Miranda sat at her desk, staring at the half-finished document on her screen. Her fingers hovered over the haptic keys, but her mind was elsewhere. Still with the Illusive Man.

She did not like the idea of seducing Shepard. Hell, she never liked the idea of seducing _anyone_. Despite what the Illusive Man claimed, she simply wasn't good at it. Half the jobs he thought she'd pulled off with charm and looks alone she'd actually pulled off at the end of a gun. It was true she had… assets that often loosened male tongues, but if they didn't work, Miranda was lost.

She wasn't about to pull a gun on Shepard. But she couldn't try and seduce him either. The man already hated her guts for all the lies she'd had to tell him. Something told her that he'd see through her best attempt in a heartbeat and she'd just have given him another reason to hate her.

She removed her hands from the keys and cradled her head. She didn't _like_ being like this. She wanted Shepard's approval just as much as Jacob did, but unlike him she had certain responsibilities. She had a place. The fact that she didn't _like_ that place didn't change that. All her talents, all her insight, only trapped her tighter in the world. Jacob could do what he wanted.

_Jacob can't do _everything_ he wants_, her conscience reminded her, and she felt her cheeks redden with shame. As socially-frigid as she was, Miranda wasn't stupid. She saw the way her lieutenant looked at her, the torch he still carried, despite his claims to the contrary. She didn't deserve his adoration. Their brief relationship had been fun, but she'd managed to cut it apart and ruin it like every other chance at happiness she'd ever been she'd broken things off Jacob had managed to convince himself that it was for the best, that he wasn't good enough for _her_, and that fact made Miranda hate herself more than anything.

She knew it was the other way around. Despite all the social training her father had put her through, all the strategies for lying and conciliating your foes, all the ways to use her sex appeal to get ahead in the business world, when it came to a man she actually liked, she had failed utterly. Jacob had done everything for her and yet she hadn't been able to conquer her own distrust. Every time he tried, every compliment he gave her just brought her back to the 'dates' her father had arranged for her back at his estate. The hollow, vacuous men of wealth and power he'd set her out to stud with like she was a bargaining chip in a business merger. Men who weren't even her father's intellectual match, let alone hers. Their empty praise had fallen on deaf ears – she _knew _she was beautiful, she _knew _she was talented, couldn't they tell her something _interesting?_

Then there had been the men she'd been with right after she'd escaped, the slick and dishonest womanizers, the base, hormone-driven excuses for people she'd thrown herself at. For a few weeks, she'd done everything she could think of to spit on her father's plans for her. She'd told herself she enjoyed it, that the physical pleasure of her brief couplings overcame whatever mental component they were lacking, but she'd known even then it had been a lie. Like it or not, she was her father's daughter and she could not sever away his identity from her own. She had to learn to hate him and love herself without forgetting that they were nearly clones.

She knew Jacob didn't deserve to be compared to any of those men. And yet she couldn't get it out of her head.

There was a knock on the door, pulling Miranda out of her self-loathing spiral. "Come in," she said, putting on a neutral face. Yeoman Chambers entered, smiling as usual.

"You called for me, Miranda?" she asked, sitting when Miranda gestured at the chair.

"Yes," she said at length, pretending to finish up her report.

"I had the most fascinating conversation with Dr. Chakwas this morning!" Kelly exclaimed, almost trembling with excitement. "Did you know she once got to treat Andre Kaygn?" She growled lustily, grinning ear to ear. "He was actually shooting a scene aboard a decommissioned warship when he got knocked out by an emergency door. He didn't want to break character so he demanded to be treated by a military doctor. Isn't that exciting!?" Miranda looked blankly at her.

"_Fascinating_, Miss Chambers," she said. Kelly seemed to sense the menace in her voice and fell silent.

"Sorry, Miss Lawson," she peeped, folding her hands between her knees.

"I want you to stop sleeping your way across the ship and get to work on Shepard," Miranda said. Kelly feigned a hurt look.

"Now that's not fair, ma'am," she said, "I haven't slept my way through even _half _the ship yet." She grinned.

"Miss Chambers…"

"Kidding, ma'am. I've been good. I've talked to Shepard a few times. I think he's warming up to me, but he's actually quite introverted. He comes across as so smooth and confident when you talk to him, but inside he's just a nervous little boy. Definitely slow to trust, himself most of all. I wonder if he was betrayed… Anyway, he called me Kelly the other day, so I think I'm breakin' 'im down." Miranda just stared at Kelly's toothy grin. She'd never liked the Yeoman. She knew the woman had talents – her memory, her good looks, and a surprisingly thick resume, considering her young age – but she was just such a twittery, flakey idiot.

Somehow the same hedonism that made the Illusive Man seem so real and perfect made Kelly seem so… useless.

"I'll put it simply, Miss Chambers," Miranda said. "You are here to convince Shepard he can trust Cerberus. That is the only reason you were hired. Stop screwing around and get it done or I will see to it that you are removed from the Normandy." Now the hurt that crossed Kelly's face was genuine.

"I…I was hand picked by the Illusive Man for this mission," she said, voice quiet. "I'm the psychologist."

"Don't be naïve. You're practically a little girl. What place do you think you have aboard _Commander Shepard's _ship? Do you really think your qualifications stand next to the rest of the crew's?"

"I… umm…"

"Let's look at a few at random, shall we? Jeff Moreau. Graduated Arcturus Flight Academy with honors at age nineteen, number one in his class, leaving behind eleven course records, seven of which still stand. Devi Patel, former Alliance AI specialist, prodigy programmer, and the only reason the Hannibal system didn't wipe out Armstrong. Lawrence Hadley, three time winner of the Asimov Prize in heuristic scanning and cyber-defense and inventor of the di-photon DS spectrographic camera." She raised a mocking eyebrow. "Need I go on?"

Kelly was silent. Miranda knew she'd struck a nerve – Kelly obviously _had _considered how paltry her own accomplishments looked next to the rest of the crew. Miranda had argued at length with the Illusive Man over including the woman at all – he had been confident she was the best choice, even after Miranda had brought him a list of thirty more qualified psychologists, many with military specialties or other talents that Kelly simply couldn't match. In the end she'd been overruled, but she hadn't given up the quiet hope that her concerns would be borne out, that Kelly would crack under the pressure and need to be replaced.

"You were put here because the Illusive Man thought Shepard would have a thing for redheads," she said. "Nothing more. Now do your job." Kelly nodded and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway.

"I'm sorry the Commander shut you out, ma'am," she said quietly. "I hope yelling at me helped."

* * *

–

Allele stared impassively as he felt the batarian struggle for its life. The flimsy creature grasped futilely at his steel-fingered grip on its neck, trying in vain to pry it away. Allele was not perfect, but Allele was stronger than this batarian. He tightened his fingers a little more, watching the merc's face change colors. A little more. A little more.

The merc went soft. Allele dragged its body to the nearest pit and tossed it in, listening to it bounce off the steel walls to the ground far below. A quick scan of the area found him his gun, which the batarian had managed to kick from his grip during their brief struggle. That shamed him, at least a little. The perfect krogan would have held onto his weapon.

Allele had been fighting the mercenaries for several days now. After attacking Jedore, he'd awoken atop a pile of corpses in the shadow of a disassembled engine. Holes still riddled his armor from where he'd been shot, and yet, aside from a roaring pain in his belly, he found himself more or less intact. He was distilled from strong lines, lines known for their regenerative abilities. Imperfect or not, he was stronger than Jedore. He would survive. The other krogan had not been so lucky, however – Allele had found his body not twenty feet away, his helmet cracked and great, smoking holes obscuring his face. Allele had stared at his friend's body for many hours, waiting to see if he would awaken, but when two days passed and the krogan remained still, he knew he had to move on. He named his friend Decant and left him where he lay. He'd killed every merc he'd seen since then, taking their weapons for himself. He'd imagined Decant was with him.

As Allele stooped to examine the batarian's assault rifle he heard the sounds of gunfire coming from a distant tunnel. He did not follow them. That was not his goal. The mercs would come to him or they would not. Either way, Allele would not kill them unless they threatened him. He would survive. He was not perfect, but he had a purpose.

Instead he sat on one of the sunniest ledges he could find and stared into his feet, listening to the fighting approach.

An hour passed and Allele lifted his massive head to see three blood-stained figures emerging from the tunnel. Allele grabbed his gun and dutifully rose to his feet, ready to fight. The warriors coming through – two humans and a turian – were not the same colors as the mercenaries, but Allele could smell the krogan blood on them from a distance. They were a threat. They would have to die, so Allele could survive. He was quiet as he approached.

He would survive. The Voice would be proud.

* * *

–

Miranda was halfway through Zaeed Massani's dossier when she heard the telltale rumble of the ship's hangar opening. She ignored it, too deep in concentration (and angry at Shepard) to care. Aside from what Miranda suspected to be one of the largest single bounties paid to a mercenary in decades, Massani had made his employment conditional on not interfering with his plans on Zorya, and Miranda buried herself among every scrap of information that existed about the backwater planet. It wasn't much – some combination of the planet's governorship (which stood to lose some of its uncommonly profitable biofuel and lumber industry if full word of Zorya's rare biodiversity got out) and the local population of Blue Suns conspired to keep Zorya nearly invisible on the galaxy's radar. Still, Miranda was an expert at ferreting hidden information out, and courtesy of the high-price bandwidth Cerberus' fortunes had secured she managed to unearth page after page of data, which she annotated with her own systematic speculations. Enemy size, disposition, assets, geography. Anything that might help them.

She heard the shuttle depart and return several times before, late that evening, Shepard finally came to visit her. The commander was back in his Cerberus uniform and freshly showered, though he'd apparently forgotten his belt (or been too tired to bother with it). He knocked on Miranda's door and, when she beckoned, flopped into the chair.

They were silent for a time, Miranda staring at Shepard while he stared somewhere past the floor, lost in thought. The Illusive Man's orders echoed in her ears. She had to get along.

"How did Korlus go?" she asked quietly, breaking the silence.

"Okeer is dead," Shepard grunted without looking up. "Poisoned himself to save his work."

"I see…" Miranda said. "Did you obtain what the Collectors had given him?"

"Maybe. Not very damn much of it, anyway." Miranda did not let herself feel a wave of pride at how poorly the mission had gone without her. She genuinely did want Shepard to succeed, regardless of their personal situation, and they'd been banking on Okeer's Collector technology to be critical evidence for Mordin's research.

Shepard finally met her gaze with his own piercing eyes.

"We did, however, come back with something else. A bio-engineered krogan." Miranda's eyes widened.

"Alive?" she asked.

"Mordin says so, at least. In a pod for now. We set him up on the lower decks. I want you to help Mordin analyze him, see what he's good for."

"The Illusive Man would s-"

"I don't care what the Illusive Man would say," Shepard interrupted, waving a hand. "I want you and Mordin to tell _me_ what the krogan is capable of. If he can be useful to us. Can you do that?" Shepard's eyebrows rose expectantly as he awaited her answer. Miranda recognized what he was trying to do. It was a gesture of peace, a chance to get back in his good graces. A chance to switch her loyalties.

Miranda frowned. The man thought she was so easily manipulated? Thought he could force her into choosing him over Cerberus just by making her sit out a mission or two? He was grossly misinformed. Miranda was not one of his lovey-dovey ultraloyal devotees who would follow him anywhere just because he took the time to ask about their pasts and stared at them oh-so-honestly.

"Sorry, Shepard," she said, glaring defiantly at him. "I'm not quite finished counting how many times you've gone to the bathroom." Shepard frowned for a moment, searching Miranda's eyes for something that wasn't in them.

He slammed a hand on her desk in anger, the look on his face that of a man who'd gambled and lost.

"Right," he said, "Take all the time you need."

* * *

_Four hours previously…_

–

Allele blinked in Korlus' harsh evening sunlight. A thick layer of blood was caked over his face, casting the world into an orange hue. He could feel the bloodrage roaring through his head, pounding against the walls in fury at the severity of his injuries.

He looked down at the smoking mess where his chest armor used to be, remembering vividly the explosion pluming. The strangers-who-were-not-mercenaries did not pull their punches. As soon as they'd seen him the one in front, one of the humans, had hefted a grenade launcher and put him down in a single shot. Allele remembered the way his hearts had sunk when he saw the shot arcing towards him, leaving a trail of smoke in its path. He had made a mistake, and he would die for it. Imperfect.

Now… he did not know. He was not dead yet, though he did not relish the idea of meeting anyone else. He stayed still, ignoring the angry hunger in his stomachs as his body rushed to repair itself. He even felt the tickle of leaked battery acid burning at his exposed skin, but did not lift himself from his position, splayed out across the floor.

He lay like that for a long time, eyes closed and mind filled with the Voice.

He heard the scuff of boots and opened one eye. He watched motionlessly as the source of the noise – a human Blue Sun, carefully set up a rocket launcher, training it on the door through which the three strangers had gone. Allele did not make a sound.

Minutes later voices came from the door and the Blue Sun tensed, ducking down to avoid being seen. Allele opened his other eye. The strangers were back, accompanied this time by several other humans in gray and black. A salarian strode ahead, calling out orders and gesticulating with his spindly arms as the humans carried a massive machine of metal and glass. Tank Mother. Allele blinked repeatedly, shocked to recognize the Voice's perfect krogan, still inert in Tank Mother's quiet embrace. Perfect.

The Blue Sun poked his head up, hefted his rocket launcher, and took aim. Allele's eyes widened in shock. He was going to destroy the perfect krogan! He was going to destroy the Voice's perfect krogan! Allele's blood surged with new purpose.

He leapt to his feet without a beat of hesitation and dove for the human just as the missile left the barrel. An explosion blossomed at Allele's feet as his hands wrapped around the shocked mercenary's head. Allele saw the superheated shrapnel tear through him but felt nothing, his pain hidden under anger and drive. Even as the force of the rocket sent him and the human tumbling over the edge, Allele's only thought was on protecting the perfect krogan. This was his purpose. He had to kill the weak and protect the strong. It was what he was for.

Perfect.

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Excerpts from the notes of Dr. Rana Thanopsis**

**Page 45. Day 418. Korlus facility**.  
- - Ran mark assay on lung epithelial tissue extracts from subject batch 12. Data workup will wait until protein identities can be confirmed, but error bars look within acceptable levels. At least four of the subjects exhibit submaximal expression levels. Suspect redundancy mechanism at play for lung function tests show no deficiencies, but Okeer is not fond of that explanation and ordered them purged.

- - Sequencing of batch 13 fetuses finished. Mutation rate calculated at one per 8x10^8 bases. Only marginally improved over batch 12. Rapid krogan mutation mechanisms well-established in literature, likely not avoidable even with Okeer's technology. Genetic therapy corrections possible for 8 out of 12 units – will broach the subject with Okeer. Do not expect much.

- - Despite Okeer's insistences, I have continued to study his unusual equipment and am convinced it is of Reaper origin. It is frighteningly similar to the samples Saren had instructed Dr. Alluviun and myself to study on Virmire. The material is otherworldly –it is as hard as cruiser armor but in your hand it is light, like chalk. I can feel the mass effect fields coursing within it, even from across the room. Out of curiosity, I cast a small field upon its surface. It crashed to the ground, its weight increased many fold. Seconds later it appeared to reassert its own field and I could lift it again.**  
Signature**: _R. Thanopsis._**  
Read and understood by**:

**Page 177. Day 501. Korlus facility.**  
- - Sequencing on batch 23 fetuses finished. Polymerase engineering reduced mutation rate to approximately one per 3x10^13 bases. Batch 23 fetuses display almost no deviation away from the base genetic donors Okeer seeks! Point mutations are reversible on all but two subjects, who have since been released to Jedore. Okeer has agreed to move on to the next stage.

- - Stage four technically not as complicated as stage three engineering – it is primarily a matter of distributing the traits of the different donors in the right combination. Satisfying Okeer, however, is obviously not going to be easy. Was Shiagur's temperament perfect, or was Kredak's? His definition of perfect is either very specific or completely amorphous, and reaching it is going to be difficult when he refuses to discuss his reasons. Krogan minds are not my place to know, he says.

- - Growth acceleration and analysis of new individuals is astonishingly quick with Okeer's Reaper technology, and the data he had on the krogan genome is perhaps the most comprehensive genetic analysis of a sentient species ever completed, but correlation of specific traits to specific genes is still an extremely complicated matter. Okeer is largely uninterested in the science behind the project.

- - Work on the revised _in vitro_ training system is going well. The connection with Reaper indoctrination remains a worry, but so far I have detected no evidence of the neural breakdown observed on Virmire. I managed to recreate much of Dr. Alluviun's work for Saren's krogan. Okeer disapproved of much of the content, of course, but the technology is more or less in place to present any desired sensory input into a subject's brain. Okeer insists upon recording all of the information himself and, to be fair, has not needed assistance on the process in more than two weeks. Some of his requests for extranet information are infuriatingly obscure, however. How does he expect me to find unclassified footage of the Battle of Canrum while juggling two-hundred krogan embryos? I asked him to hire more aid, but he says I am uniquely qualified as the only surviving researcher from Saren's facility. Call me crazy, but his praise is of little consolation.

- - Jedore is becoming a problem. Her funds have, of course, been invaluable, or I imagine Okeer would have killed her already for her intrusions.**  
Signature**: _R. Thanopsis._**  
Read and understood by**:

**Page 251. Day 651. Korlus facility.**  
- - Okeer has acquired fifty additional tanks. That brings our total to five hundred forty tanks, five hundred eleven of which are filled. Many of the oldest surviving krogan fetuses (subjects 3, 8, and 12 from batch 25) are reaching adult size, but I estimate less than 1% are allowed to make it that far before Okeer finds some arcane fault and kicks them out to free up space for a new try.

- - I have given up trying to understand Okeer. Most of his demands are mutually incoherent. If he has a rhyme or reason, he won't share it with me. My efforts to remove the genophage markers were not appreciated. I maintain that it would take me less than a month or two to engineer it out of new subjects with the Reaper instruments, but when I mentioned my preliminary data to Okeer he nearly broke my neck.

- - Aside from Okeer's arbitrary rejections, the subjects' development is proceeding normally. Most are exceptionally healthy and take to the physical and mental conditioning treatments with no difficulty. Rejected krogan are capable of walking and operating weapons within a few minutes of decanting. Their mental development is, quite predictably, stunted, and my repeated suggestions to give them time and training after decanting to calm their unpredictable outbursts have been entirely ignored by Okeer and Jedore alike.

- - Another one of Jedore's krogan went berserk yesterday and apparently killed her guard captain. Three of her guards cornered me in the lab this morning, blaming the incident on my training protocols. I feared for my life, and my best explanations were reduced to stutters at the point of a gun. Okeer saved me. He tore all three men limb from limb and told me to get back to work. I am not sure whether to be grateful, especially after he ate one of the mercenaries' arms and left the rest to fester in my lab. Still, he remains only the second worst lab master I have worked for. Saren would have let me die and promoted my assistant to dissect my remains.**  
Signature**: _R. Thanopsis._**  
Read and understood by**:

**Page 411. Day 706. Korlus facility.**  
- - Okeer has ejected all but three of the krogan, including more than a hundred that were not yet viable and had to be discarded. Their remains form a pile taller than I am. What a waste of life.

- - Okeer is getting crazier and crazier. I risk the hope that he may finally be satisfied with these final three before I am asked to begin a new batch. Subject 6 of batch 28 appears to be his favorite. He is one of the largest we've made – his armor had to be specially crafted – though he is otherwise physically indistinguishable from his failed brethren, which now number almost a thousand. Clearly his 'perfection' is more in Okeer's analysis of his mental state than his physical.

- - Jedore is increasingly unstable as well. I do not know what her purpose for the krogan was, but I am utterly relieved that she has been unable to harness them.**  
Signature**: _R. Thanopsis._**  
Read and understood by**:

–

* * *

**A/N: **Chapter 7! So, this was a tough one to write, because I think the character is very complicated. I am not a huge Miranda fan, though I think she has a lot of potential. I hope I can ultimately unlock some of that potential in ways the game did not (for me, at least). Do let me know what you think.

So... I've gotten a number of comments asking when this Tali/MShep story is actually going to feature Tali and MShep in the same scene. I apologize to those looking mostly to score some interaction scenes between them - I did not mean to falsely advertise. That said, it is coming, and soon. More than that you'll have to read on to find out, but I promise to get Tali worked back into the story as soon as is reasonably possible. Good things come to those who wait, yes?

As before, many thanks to my beta Angurvddel, who continues to be invaluable.

Chapter 8 is coming along well, and focuses on a character I really enjoy writing. I've decided to stop saying "Character X is unpopular" because every time I do I end up being wrong, but I can confidently say character X from chapter 8 is not popular in proportion to his badassery.


	8. Chapter 8, Upheaval, Zaeed Massani

**Upheaval – Zaeed Massani**

* * *

–

Zaeed hated batarians.

He hated a lot of things, of course. You don't earn a reputation as one of the deadliest mercs in a galaxy of a trillion beings without enduring a little hardship. And you don't endure a little hardship without finding something to hate about it. In six decades of hard living Zaeed had come up with quite a list. He hated deserts. He hated being sick. He hated the salarians' pitiful excuses for food. He hated radios that only picked up static and propaganda for month after month. He hated fat slobs who thought the universe was a tourist trap. He hated bloody goddamn eye injuries. Hell, he'd managed to hate more than a few people in his life.

But goddamnit if he didn't hate batarians. Filthy, ugly assholes just about topped the list. Right below Vido. Their black, lifeless eyes filled his dreams some nights. Nightmares, the lot of them.

Still, Zaeed didn't let it get to him. Hating things was a coping mechanism. Complaining while you spent ten months up to your ass in mud on some hellhole planet waiting for your target to show himself kept you sane. Only problem was when you hated something so much you forgot about the things you _didn't _hate.

_Shooting_ batarians, for example. Just the thought brought Zaeed's scarred mouth into a rictus smile that would send most people running for their lives. Good times. His grip was tight around the back of the injured batarian's neck as he half-led, half-dragged the sorry sack of organs through the streets of Omega. Zaeed kept his gun firmly planted in the small of the batarian's back, concealed as a matter of habit, though of course nobody on Omega would give him a second glance if he'd shot the batarian then and there. The bullethole in the back of the batarian's knee bled profusely, leaving a black-brown trail everywhere they went, but Zaeed showed no pity. Every time the batarian stumbled, Zaeed gave him a solid kick to speed things up.

"Up we go," Zaeed muttered as they approached a flight of stairs to one of Omega's docking rings. The batarian groaned. "Not sure what you were thinkin', mate," Zaeed continued, enjoying the batarian's utterly defeated expression. "Comin' to Omega. Practically handed yourself to me right there." He shook his head as they passed lines of brightly-lit shops set between the docking causeways. "Goddamn stupid idea."

He stopped at an intersection, ignoring the stares of a pair of shifty-eyed salarians. "Let's see," he said, and tossed the batarian unceremoniously onto the ground. He thrust a hand into his pocket and withdrew a little scrap of paper with an address scrawled onto it. "Bay ninety-four, says," he told the batarian. "Suppose that's just down this way, then." By this point the batarian knew enough not to struggle when Zaeed stooped to drag him back to his feet.

"'sabout time for us to part, you ugly sonofabitch," he said cheerfully. "Already called it in to your salarian pal. He sounded _real_ excited to see you." The batarian groaned again and Zaeed chuckled.

Bloody hilarious.

They reached docking bay ninety-four without incident and found Zaeed's contact waiting for them in an unremarkable hovercar. A turian attendant, impeccably dressed in black armor that looked more suited for a dinner party than a battlefield, rapped on one of the tinted windows as they approached. The window rolled down, revealing an impatient-looking salarian.

"Got a present for you. Alive, like I said," Zaeed said, shoving the batarian to the floor. He holstered his gun, crossing his arms arrogantly across his armored chest. The salarian's big eyes flitted across the batarian, and then back to Zaeed. He frowned.

"Not unharmed, like _I_ said."

"We agreed not dead. He ain't dead. Care to make an issue over it?" Zaeed asked. "Wanna see if your butler here's worth the money you pay him?" Zaeed fixed the salarian with his now infamous two-toned granite stare. He didn't draw his gun – he didn't have to. He might have looked worn down next to the gilded armor of the turian guard, but he was one of the deadliest bastards around and everyone knew it.

"That won't be necessary," the salarian said, blinking rapidly. "I hold your obligations fulfilled. Yotus!" the turian stepped forward with a mechanical salute. The salarian flicked his head towards the batarian. "Toss this trash in the back. We'll deal with him back at the compound." Zaeed stepped aside as Yotus manhandled the batarian into the vehicle's rear seat. The salarian stared at him. "I've transferred the rest of your fee into your account."

Zaeed knew better than to trust _anyone_ on word alone, and quickly yanked a beat-up old datapad out of one of his pockets. He frowned at the numbers on the screen a half second before drawing a pistol and aligning it with the salarian's face. The salarian's eyes widened in shock.

"I'm a merc," Zaeed growled, "doesn't mean I can't count. Let's see the rest of it."

"I… I don't…"

"Fix it. Now. Or we'll see what your half a brain looks like smeared across the dash." The salarian swallowed nervously.

"Of… of course," he said, calling up a haptic holo-display on his dashboard. His hands shook as he rapped in a few quick commands. Zaeed's datapad gave a beep and displayed a more satisfactory sum. Zaeed smiled and bowed his head.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, holstering his pistol. "Have a nice day."

–

Zaeed lit up a cigar on his way back to the alley where he'd met Shepard. He savored each puff.

Hopefully Shepard wasn't the sort of asshole boss that expected him to give up smoking and drinking while on the job (another one for the hate list, incidentally). Obviously Zaeed wasn't dumb enough to fight drunk, but some bosses had their heads far up enough their asses to think a little substance abuse in down-times was counterproductive. Bloody lunacy, in Zaeed's opinion, but he was a professional. If Shepard told him his favorite vices wouldn't be tolerated on the Normandy he'd put them away without a second's hesitation. Considering how much he was being paid, after all, he figured he could put up with a little discomfort.

Still, it hadn't stopped him from stocking up. He'd made all the arrangements while hunting the batarian across the station, and by the time he'd reached the Normandy all of his supplies were waiting for him. Five or six crates of weapons, mementos, fine cigars and imported booze. All around him, black-and-gray clad crewmembers ignored him as they bustled about like a hive of insects, loading the Normandy with dozens of shipping containers of various sizes. Zaeed recognized some of the company logos printed across their sides from back when he did corporate security – wealthy instrument manufacturers, mostly. Someone on the Normandy was doing some serious research spending.

Zaeed leaned against the crates and absently puffed his cigar, staring up at the ship's underbelly with critical eyes. Definitely the prettiest ship he'd ever served on. Brand new. Hardly a scratch on any of her jet black armor plating. Not generally a good sign, in Zaeed's experience – he'd take a beat up old bitch of a ship over top of the line lab-grown tech any day. He made a mental note of it but shrugged it off – he was here for ground-squad combat, not logistics. He'd just have to trust that Cerberus had spent as many credits finding a decent pilot and crew as they'd spent on him.

Crushing the smoldering remains of his cigar underfoot, Zaeed shouted down the nearest crewmember. The man blinked and stared at him in confusion.

"Who are you?"

"Zaeed Massani, killer for hire," he boasted, leaning against the stack of crates for effect. "Call me Grandpa and I will shoot you in the mouth. Now help me with my effects." He thrust a thumb at the crates.

The man looked confused at first, but Zaeed's armor-clad form did not cut a figure to be argued with. In a moment he called three others to help him and each grabbed a crate. Zaeed followed them up the Normandy's loading ramp, lugging the crate that contained his beloved Jessie.

"God help you if you drop anything!"

–

Zaeed was an adaptable man. You had to be, in his line of work. A freelance merc might be building barricades on some godawful methane world one day and hijacking slave trade ships the next. It was hard, unforgiving work and at the end of the day you didn't always get a bunk to lay down in. So being set up in one of the Normandy's cargo and utility rooms was more than good fortune as far as Zaeed was concerned. He'd wasted no time in setting out his favorite war trophies, hiding his cigars and alcohol, and stacking up the rest of the crates in neat piles, and by the time Shepard came to visit him that evening, he already felt right at home, leaning up against the wall enjoying another cigar.

Zaeed's eyes followed Shepard, sizing him up. He'd heard of the man, of course – you'd have had to be damn blind not to have heard of Shepard after the geth attack on the Citadel (or the Blitz, for that matter), and Zaeed was, cyclopic or otherwise, most certainly not blind. Seeing the supposed hero in person was an entirely different matter, however. Frankly, Zaeed was not impressed. Though he looked a little ill and scars lined his face, Shepard looked more like a movie star than a battle-hardened soldier. Practically a goddamn kid. Still, appearances could be deceiving, and Zaeed did not miss the steel in the commander's eyes as he looked around at Zaeed's setup for a moment. He met the mercenary's gaze without flinching. Zaeed respected that.

"So. Zaeed Massani," he said.

"Aye," Zaeed replied, absently chewing on the end of his cigar. If Shepard was upset by his abruptness, he didn't show it.

"I see you've made yourself at home."

"That a problem?"

"No, no problem. Not a fan of shared crew quarters, I'm guessing."

"Hell no. I keep my back to a wall at all times. Besides, I've slept on worse than this," he indicated the steel flooring with the toe of his boot. Shepard nodded his understanding.

"I didn't have time to go through all of your dossier," he said.

"In short, it's damn impressive," Zaeed interrupted. "I'm the best there is. Everything else is details." He puffed arrogantly. Shepard ignored the interruption.

"I'm just trying to get a sense of what you're good for," Shepard said, eyes not leaving Zaeed's.

"Anything you need, Shepard. Especially if that involves killing. I pull my own," Zaeed promised. Shepard did not acknowledge, merely crossed his arms and stared expectantly at Zaeed. "In the mood for a story?" Zaeed asked. Shepard didn't nod, but looked attentive, all the same. "I can work with that." He sat up and paced for a moment, trying to decide how to begin. "I've been freelance across the galaxy for twenty years now," he started, "ran with a private army for ten or so before that." Shepard stared up at the ceiling, calculating.

"That would mean…"

"Yeah, right around First Contact," Zaeed said. "On Earth. Before that I was a soldier in CASAI for a few years, fighting the riots in Africa. Mostly Namibia, some in South Africa then up in Sudan. Trained with EU elites as a shock trooper. I know guns, I know explosives, I know a half dozen ways to kill a man with a goddamn pocketknife." He grinned arrogantly at the commander. "I've seen it all, Shepard. Things you can't imagine."

"A lot of people here are ex-military," Shepard pointed out, unimpressed. "Myself included." Zaeed scoffed.

"You ever been to Earth, Shepard?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Three times."

"Good to hear. Where at? Havana, got to assume," Zaeed guessed. Havana Spaceport was one of Earth's largest military facilities and a major hub for Alliance activity on Earth. Zaeed had been through it a time or two while still employed with CASAI, but of course it had been years since he'd willingly stepped anywhere near Alliance personnel. Shepard nodded.

"Yeah, two through Havana when my parents got called in for some kind of assignment. The third time was a vacation. Landed in Albuquerque." Albuquerque was Earth's oldest and largest publicly-owned spaceports, a tremendous center of interstellar commerce right in the middle of the American Southwest.

"Right, Albuquerque. Been through there," Zaeed said. "Beautiful city. Food, music. Sunsets, right?" Shepard nodded. "Bloody goddamn cultural hub." Zaeed fixed the man with a hard glare. "Let me tell you something, Shepard. Most of Earth is nothing like Albuquerque. Get away from your posh cities and it's a goddamn warzone. Violence and crime and disease and starvation the likes of which make Omega shudder." He jabbed his cigar towards the commander. "You spend a couple tours on the ground in Namibia then tell me ex-CASAI's the same thing as the ex-Alliance. We didn't get armor suits and air conditioned barracks and kinetic barriers and medigel. They gave us a goddamn slugthrower and half a canteen of water and kicked us out into the sand! Every other bullet our guns jammed and we had to kill with our bloody fists!" Zaeed took another dramatic puff of his cigar, really getting into the story. It might have been a _little_ exaggerated, but it had been a hell few humans in space knew still existed, and Zaeed felt a sick pride in having endured it.

"I see," Shepard said.

"You're military Shepard," Zaeed continued, "so I don't need to tell you how it feels to go to bed with an empty stomach. But try doing it in hundred thirty degree weather when your mates are catching cholera and shitting themselves to death all around you."

"I guess I didn't realize the situation was so bad," Shepard said.

"You're not alone, Shepard," Zaeed replied, waving his cigar hand dismissively. "You were born in space worrying about goddamn aliens and whatnot. Who cares about the poor bastards down on the ground?" Zaeed grinned wickedly. Spacer-kids were always so taken in by the sterile efficiency of Alliance spacecraft, convinced that that was what all of humanity was about. Zaeed loved the look on their faces when he told them how wrong that was.

"That hardly seems fair," Shepard said, frowning. "The Alliance has worked with planetary governments for decades to improve living conditions on Earth. It isn't perfect, but it isn't like we abandoned them. Besides, if you're so worried about them, why did you leave?"

"Weren't you listening? I just said Earth was a goddamn hellhole! Soon as me and my mates found us a ship, we got the hell off! Never looked back. The poor bastards on the ground can keep it far as I'm concerned."

"How noble."

"I'm a mercenary," Zaeed pointed out. "Noble's above my pay grade."

"Fair enough," Shepard said. "But how can I trust my crew's lives in your hands, then? What's to stop you from leaving _us_ to rot when we get inconvenient?" Shepard had a self-satisfied look on his face, like this was the real reason he'd come to talk to Zaeed at all. Zaeed rolled his eyes.

"This again. The loyalty talk, right?" He returned his cigar to his mouth and mimicked Shepard's obstinate posture. "Listen Shepard, I'll tell you what I tell everyone. I will do what I was paid to do. I don't accept other offers 'till I'm through with you. I'll do whatever I'm asked, damn as well as I can do it. Anybody looks at you or your crew wrong and I'll put my boot so far up his ass it'll scuff up his tonsils. And I _won't_ shoot you in the back. Trust me, I got a lot riding on this mission's success." He cocked an arrogant grin. "A whole lot."

"Not a particularly reassuring attitude, even so," Shepard said.

"Don't give me that. Everybody's loyalty has a price. I just happen to know mine. And it's got a bunch of zeroes in it."

"Some people don't care about money, Zaeed" Shepard said. Zaeed did not miss the fact that Shepard made no such claim for himself.

"Didn't say the price had to be money. But you tell me there's _nothing_ that could buy you off and I'll kiss a batarian." He gave Shepard a lopsided smile. "Usually easy enough to guess it. You got a girl?" he asked. "Say I put a gun to her head and tell you to quit the mission or I pull the trigger. Would you do it?"

"I don't have a girl," Shepard said.

"Damn good for you. They're a pain in the ass, the lot of them. Point still stands though, Shepard. You got something or someone out there that matters more to you than anything else. _That's_ your price. It doesn't mean you're gonna betray your allies. And it doesn't mean I will either." He stared at the commander, daring him to disagree. Shepard stared back hard, as if trying to see the honesty in Zaeed's mismatched eyes, before nodding, apparently satisfied. He reached to his back pocket and produced a thick roll of paper. He tossed it on the table next to the surveillance monitors. Curious, Zaeed's gaze flickered across it long enough to read the first few lines.

"Jack?" he asked. Shepard nodded.

"Keep reading."

"Jack on Purgatory…" Zaeed said, realization dawning.

"It's her dossier. She's a super biotic – probably the most powerful human biotic in existence." He looked at Zaeed. "I want you to read it and tell me if recruiting her is as stupid as it sounds." Zaeed eyed the thickness of the document – it was quite a few pages – then looked skeptically back at Shepard.

"Reading isn't really in my job description."

"You can't read?"

"I can read, jackass."

"Then read it. You said you'd follow my orders. I'm ordering you to read it and tell me what you think." He held up a hand to silence any further protests. "I have no lack for talented fighters on my team, Zaeed. If all that time in Namibia didn't leave you with any useful advice, what good are you? Read it. Tell me what you think." Zaeed stared at the dossier like it was a cobra that might bite him.

"…Roger that."

–

It never ceased to amaze Zaeed how much goddamn _waiting_ he had to put up with as a mercenary. You'd think with the kind of money he was being paid Shepard would keep him busy, but no… Three hours now Zaeed had been stuck sitting on a barstool in the Afterlife waiting for Shepard to finish bargaining with Aria. Three bloody goddamn hours.

Zaeed took it in stride. All he had to do was imagine the money again. He didn't care enough to figure it out in his head, but he guessed he was making more money hour-for-hour sitting on a barstool than a goddamn brain surgeon got for saving peoples' lives. That thought made him laugh.

His gauntleted hand still clenched around his half-finished drink. He'd ordered it to avoid suspicion, but Zaeed wasn't dumb enough to be drinking out on the field, on Omega no less. Humans who let their guard down here were practically begging to get a knife to the kidneys. Even with Shepard's pet turian – Gary or something – standing watch on the far end of the bar, Zaeed wasn't about to risk it. He had to watch out for himself. It was funny in a cosmic kind of way. Practically everyone he ever worked for expected him to stab them in the back at the first opportunity, and yet they treated him as expendable. Goddamn hypocrites. Zaeed hadn't lied to Shepard about protecting him and his crew - he was quite prepared to take on the whole bar to protect Gary if the need arose, but would the turian reciprocate if _he _found trouble? Not a chance. He was on his own, like always.

Luckily, it wasn't much longer before Shepard finally descended the staircase leading from Aria's perch, a glum look on his face. Zaeed tossed back the rest of his drink and stood, listening to the gruesome wet pop of vertebrae in his back - his body telling him he was getting too damn old for this. He silently bade his body to shut the hell up and mind its own goddamn business as he strode over to join the commander and Gary at the stairs to the bar's lower level.

"How'd it go? Was she able to find it for you?" Gary was asking. Shepard shook his head wearily.

"She says she has contacts that could dig it up in a day or two but she didn't like what I had to trade. She was interested, but at the end of the day, Tarak, Garm, and Jaroth are dead, Garrus. Details of their plans to overthrow her are a little bit moot at this point." Garrus' mandibles flickered. Zaeed's surprised gaze traced over the turian's face. He'd heard about all that – all of the major gang bosses on Omega dying inside one day. Killed by Archangel. A _turian_. Could it be?

"That makes sense," Garrus said, nodding. "Damn us for being such efficient merc killers." Shepard nodded, managing a toothy grin.

"She did, however, suggest another favor she might be willing to part with some information for," he said. "A hit's gone out on a friend of hers and she wants him brought into hiding." Shepard made for the lower level of the club, Garrus and Zaeed following behind

"Pardon my saying so, Commander," Garrus said, ducking under a low ceiling, "but that sounds like a suspiciously small price for access to her intelligence networks. Could be she's just stringing you along." Zaeed thought the turian had the right idea. Aria didn't do things without good reason.

"Could be," Shepard agreed. "Or perhaps she aims to make an ally out of me. She's been surprisingly helpful so far. In any case, we'll find out. She'll help me find what I need or she won't. Either way, we've got a krogan to save."

"Commander," Garrus said, stopping Shepard with a taloned hand on his shoulder. "Would you mind tackling this one without me? I have some… things I would like to check on before we go." Concern dotted Shepard's face.

"You sure you'll be alright?"

"Please Commander. I've been on Omega for almost two years. I think I can handle myself." Shepard gave him a hard look, and Garrus' mandibles fell sheepishly. "Alright, point taken," he said. "I'll be more careful not to piss off every merc on the station this time." Shepard smiled and nodded, and in a flash Garrus had disappeared down a nearby corridor, leaving Shepard and Zaeed alone.

"Holy shit," Zaeed said, causing the commander to stare at him with raised brows. "That was Archangel, wasn't it?"

"'Course not," Shepard said, winking. "Archangel's dead." Shepard continued down the path to lower Afterlife, leaving the mercenary gawking down the corridor Garrus had disappeared into. Zaeed nodded, impressed, before turning to follow..

"Riiight," he said, jogging to catch up. "Either way, he's right. You ever hear the 'first rule of Omega'?" he asked. Shepard nodded. "You said you were out for useful advice, well here you go. Keep that rule in mind. Asari like Aria are bad news. Long memories."

"You're not afraid of asari are you?" Shepard asked, the ghost of a grin on his lips.

"Hell no," Zaeed boasted. "Just don't like picking fights when they aren't needed. Frankly, I'm tired of biotics treating the rest of us like we're just kids playin' in a goddamn sandbox." Shepard just grinned as Zaeed launched into full-on rant mode. "They think we don't pose 'em any threat. You wanna kill a biotic, just buy you a damn sniper rifle and some armor piercing rounds. Shoot 'em in the goddamn head before they got the chance to put up a barrier and grind you into paste. Easy."

"Better not miss," Shepard observed

"You miss then you deserve to be ground into paste," Zaeed said. "But standard procedure if the shot doesn't kill 'em? EMP. Most amps'll fry easy enough, unless they're the fancy hardened military ones. Then just put a round or two into their face. It's just not that big of a deal. Really, everybody says asari are the galaxy's best warriors but hell if I can see that."

"Who are the galaxy's greatest warriors then?" Shepard asked mildly, poking his head into each of the smaller lounges on the lower level and clearly only halfway listening.

"Lot of smart people would say krogan," Zaeed said, unbothered by the commander's inattentiveness. "Big goddamn lizards pack a punch. Asari can bite it, bunch of skinny blue bitches. Face six hundred pounds of angry meat and bone and then tell me biotics make the warrior. It's bullshit."

Zaeed's rant was temporarily cut off when Shepard finally found the room he was searching for. An ancient, cataract-eyed krogan stared blearily out at them. As Shepard launched into his usual brand of charm, Zaeed immediately fell silent and took up position at the door, eyes scanning the bar for any potential trouble. He doubted anyone was dumb enough to come after someone in full N7 armor – let alone someone with Zaeed goddamn Massani at his back – but it didn't do to be incautious. He mustered his most intimidating glare at a couple of batarians sitting at a nearby table.

Shepard spoke to Aria's friend for several minutes. Zaeed didn't bother listening in, but couldn't help but overhear the ugly lizard's stern proclamation that he was going nowhere. Shepard's charisma had little effect on him and, after several attempts to change the beast's mind, Shepard emerged from the room, defeated.

"Looks like we're krannts now, whatever that means," the commander said with a sigh. He made for the exit.

"Krogan term for ally. Something like that," Zaeed supplied helpfully, following behind. "Assume we're killing some mercs now."

"Sounds that way," Shepard agreed. "Though we'll see if we can't talk them down first." Zaeed nodded.

"Like I was sayin', Shepard," Zaeed said, eager to finish his rant, "krogan like old Ugly in there seem like the obvious answer, but that's wrong too. Right answer's humans. Humans are the greatest warriors, bar none." Shepard did not respond, but Zaeed continued anyway. "Because we're the meanest bastards out there and everybody knows it. You ever met a human who wasn't plotting the demise of everyone around him? We're pitiful, petty little jackasses and it makes us dangerous."

"Maybe _you _are, Zaeed," Shepard said. "Besides, krogan fight all the time."

"Krogan fighting is like line dancing. It's part of their culture. Every clan fights all the others for territory. Sensible. You put two krogan in a room, they're gonna duke it out until one of them admits the other's boss, but then they stop. Humans fight for no reason. Allies, enemies. Whatever. Put two humans in a room and even if they're best pals they'll be sitting there plotting how to screw the other guy. And humans are damn good at figuring out clever ways to screw people."

Shepard didn't get a chance to respond as the club's exit door folded away, revealing a pair of massive krogan in black-and-red armor. The white skull insignias on their shoulders identified them as Blood Pack mercenaries and the guns in their hands identified them as on business. Shepard stopped fearlessly but Zaeed kept walking without a second glance, pushing past Shepard and the mercs as if he had something pressing to do in the market district. The krogan snorted in anger (and Shepard gave him a look of bewilderment), but Zaeed kept up the act and kept walking until he heard Shepard start to talk.

The krogan turned all their attention to Shepard. It had worked. Goddamn stupid krogan.

Zaeed turned around and drew his rifle before sneaking up behind one of the mercs. In the keyhole of space between the mercs' armored bodies he flashed Shepard an arrogant grin. Shepard, to his credit, did not betray any sign that he'd seen Zaeed and continued trying to convince the krogan to back off. He held out his hands in a gesture of peace as he talked, appealing to their sense of battle-honor, but the krogan were having none of it. They growled and threatened and stamped their heavy feet, promising death on Shepard and ten generations of his family and all other manner of belligerent exaggeration. Shepard bore their bravado in good humor for while, but after a minute or two had passed with no progress made, he caught Zaeed's eyes again and gave a quick nod.

Zaeed and Shepard opened fire simultaneously. Zaeed's carefully-positioned shots hit true on the weakest spot on the rear of one of the merc's skulls, killing him instantly. He slammed to the ground and Zaeed turned his rifle to bear on Shepard's target, which bellowed and died in seconds under their combined fire.

The echoes of the mercenaries' dying roars faded, and Zaeed and Shepard stood triumphantly over the half-ton of reptile they'd just slain, gun barrels still smoking. Dirt-stained vagrants crowded around the far end of the hall, staring curiously at the carnage, and Zaeed tossed Shepard a grim smile.

"Nice trick," Shepard said, wiping the sweat from his face with one armored forearm.

"Like I said, Shepard. Humans."

–

"Mr. Massani."

Zaeed creaked open his good eye from his position face down on the desk, a deep scowl on his face.

"Mr. Massani," the voice repeated. Zaeed grunted angrily and tried to get back to sleep.

"Mr. Massani."

"What!?" he demanded, sitting up from where he'd fallen asleep atop Jack's dossier and glaring at the blue orb casting the room aglow from atop the projector on the wall.

"I apologize for waking you, Mr. Massani," EDI said, "but Operative Lawson would like to see you in the port storage bay." Zaeed glared at the clock on his busted old datapad. Three in the morning. He'd spent the day touring Omega with Shepard and half the night forcing himself through page after page of Jack's medical and police reports and they couldn't give him two bloody hours to sleep? Goddamn slavedrivers, the lot of them.

"You woke me for that?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Operative Lawson is the executive officer of this vessel. I am compelled to comply with her orders. I apologize for waking you. She would like to see you in the port storage bay."

"Alright, alright, I'm going," he grouched, rising to his feet. He grabbed the assault rifle by the door on his way out, latching it onto the magnetic clips on his back.

It was the quietest part of the ship's artificial day, and the Normandy was staffed by only a skeleton crew of engineers and technicians. It wasn't a loud ship by any means - even at the height of activity - but it felt like a tomb as Zaeed walked the hallway to the other side of the deck. Zaeed approached the door to the port storage bay and knocked quietly. It folded away, bathing him in bright light.

The room was full of great stacks of cargo, and yet utterly dominated by a clear tank in the center. Zaeed whistled in appreciation at the sight of the krogan floating within. It was a young one – he'd guess no more than thirty or forty years old, based on the separated head plates – but one of the largest he'd ever seen. Miranda was hard at work, running her omnitool over the tank's surface, but even the sight of her backside was not, at the moment, enough to draw Zaeed's attention. His mind was too far off imagining fights between the krogan and himself. They would be goddamn spectacular, no doubt about that.

"Quite a beauty," he managed to say eventually. Miranda turned and fixed him with a disapproving glare. He caught her look and smirked. "Don't flatter yourself, Sweet-cakes," he said, pointing up at the slumbering alien, "I was talking about the lizard." Miranda's frown only deepened.

"It's Shepard's newest pet alien," she said, tone frustrated. "But that's not important right now. I want you to tell me what happened on Omega." He finally tore his gaze away from the bottled krogan and met her blue-gray eyes again.

"Same as always happens on Omega. That place never changes." Miranda rolled her eyes.

"I mean today. Shepard took you and Garrus onto Omega without telling anyone why. He isn't talking to me. I want to know." Zaeed shook his head.

"Not a chance. Shepard holds my contract, lady," he said. "If he didn't trust you enough to tell you what he's doing, then neither do I."

"Shepard is not paying your fee. Cerberus is," Miranda said. She picked up a datapad from atop a nearby crate and, with a couple of key presses, conjured up the contract he'd made with the Illusive Man's agents a few days previously. She held it triumphantly in front of him, a smirk on her face. "And you will call me 'Operative Lawson' or 'ma'am'."

"My mistake, ma'am," Zaeed said, taking on a more respectful tone. "I'm afraid I don't have much for you. I spent half the day sitting in the Afterlife while Shepard talked to Aria."

"Aria? Why was he talking to her?" Miranda asked, brows narrowing suspiciously.

"Needed her contacts, best I could tell. After some information. Had some in trade for it, she didn't bite. So he and I went and did a little of her dirty work, and I spent a few _more _hours sitting on my ass while Shepard talked."

"Cerberus has some of the widest intelligence networks in the galaxy," Miranda said (though Zaeed got the distinct impression she wasn't talking to him anymore). "Why didn't he just ask me?"

"No doubt he wants to know something you'd rather not tell 'im," Zaeed supplied.

"Obviously. And you have no idea what he and Aria spoke about?" Zaeed shook his head again.

"Other than that he left with her promise that she'd find out what he wanted, not a clue." Miranda sat lightly on a chair and rested her chin in one hand, her frustration clear. She sat like that for several minutes, just thinking and compulsively pushing a strand of hair out of her face while Zaeed stood silently at the door. For his part, he passed the time pretending to be attentive and undressing her with his eyes – even though he only had one that worked, her choice of outfit made it an easy job. At length she looked at him again.

"Shepard and I have had some… _disagreements_," she said. "Regarding the chain of command." Zaeed said nothing. "Technically we want Shepard making the decisions – there's a reason we hired him – but he has gotten it into his head that we aren't to be trusted, and he's been rebelling against our objectives. We are worried he is putting the mission in danger."

"Put your boot down then, ma'am," Zaeed said, sensing that she expected some response. "If you're paying the bills."

"Shepard is a charming man," she continued, ignoring his suggestion. "He has a skill for forging alliances. But he is stubborn – even stupid – after he's made up his mind. He will try to rally the crew against Cerberus." She gave him a hard glare. "When he does, I expect you to remember which side you're on." Zaeed rolled his eyes, frowning.

"What do you want me to do, start sneaking Cerberus propaganda into my war stories?" he asked sarcastically, forgetting his respectful tone. "'Hey Shepard'," he said to the ceiling. "'Did I ever tell you about the time me an' Cerberus killed forty-five batarians with a hairbrush and saved the universe? Boy Cerberus, I tell you. They're right decent people.'" He stared at her, trying to remind her with expression alone how many Cerberus agents he'd personally killed.

"If that's what it takes," Miranda said, ignoring his mockery. "This mission is not going to succeed if Shepard does not trust his crew. If you should see an opportunity to foster peace between him and Cerberus, I order you to pursue it." Zaeed grimaced.

"Yes ma'am," he said to her cocky smile, hating it.

"You may go," she said. As Zaeed stomped out of the room, he couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. One wanted him to read, another one wanted him to be a goddamn counselor. When would someone just ask him to go kill stuff?

–

Zaeed didn't see Shepard for two days. Almost nobody did. The commander spent most of his hours locked in his quarters, only resurfacing to grab the occasional meal and retreat back into solitude. EDI assured the crew that he was in good health, if somewhat obsessively fixated on a pile of datapads with contents unknown. Dr. Chakwas – who'd managed to visit the man once under the pretense of medical reasons - said much the same. The commander was simply pondering his next move in solitude, as he had often been wont to do on the original Normandy, and between them Chakwas, Joker, and Garrus managed to keep everyone – even Miranda – from disturbing him.

It was not hard to guess what decisions might be weighing on Shepard's mind. Things were piling up. Mordin had okayed the krogan's health, and the thought of working alongside quarter-ton alien loomed over the crew's mind. Miranda had, of course, made her objections to waking it abundantly clear, but the crew had largely agreed that in doing so she had virtually guaranteed that Shepard would release the krogan, if just to spite her. The fact that their next mission would take them to a high-security orbital prison to retrieve a dangerous (and dangerously powerful) psychopath did not go unnoticed either. Nervous whispers about the dangers of aliens and unstable biotics traveled through the ship like wildfire. Perhaps worst of all, the weight of their ultimate goal hovered over the crew like a cloud – whatever Shepard chose to do about Jack, she was the last of the Illusive Man's dossiers. Once she was dealt with – what then?

Nobody begrudged Shepard his space.

Zaeed was just coming up from weight-lifting in the hangar bay, a thick coat of sweat gluing his undershirt to his tattooed skin, when he heard a crash come from his room. His thoughts flew immediately to his beloved Jessie and he practically sprinted the rest of the journey, heart pounding in fear.

Had it been anyone else, Zaeed would have put a boot up their ass for even making him _think_ Jessie was in danger. But when the door opened to reveal Shepard, on his knees and rifling through one of Zaeed's crates, the grizzled old mercenary just frowned and crossed his arms disapprovingly.

"Speaking of trust…" he said. Shepard ignored him and, apparently not finding what he was looking for, moved on to the next crate.

"Shut up, Zaeed," Shepard grunted. "It's my ship." Zaeed just shook his head. Based on the exhausted look in the commander's eyes and the three days of unshaven whiskers on his face, it wasn't hard to guess what he was after. Zaeed strode wordlessly to the rear bulkhead and pulled the emergency medkit out of its compartment. Unzipping the red bag, he pulled out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

Shepard looked at him, a mixture of shame and amazement on his face, as Zaeed poured them a drink. He set Shepard's atop the table.

"The med kit, Zaeed? Really?" Shepard asked, staring at the amber liquid as he rose to his feet. "What if you'd needed it?"

"I took the parts I wanted," Zaeed said. He paused, taking a mouthful of bourbon and savoring it on his tongue. He swallowed. "But let's be real here, Shepard. If I don't make it back from this mission, Cerberus doesn't have to pay me a whole shitton of money. Medkit doesn't do me any good if nobody's gonna use it on me." Shepard shook his head.

"That's pretty grim, Zaeed." Zaeed shrugged.

"That's life. I'm not your friend and you're not mine, Shepard. I know that. Things go better when we act civil, but I've got even less reason to trust you than you got to trust me. Now you wanna tell me why you're breaking into my room looking for booze?"

"There isn't any in my room," Shepard said simply, still staring at his untouched drink. "Let's say I'm here to ask if you finished reading Jack's dossier and leave it at that, shall we?" Zaeed nodded ambivalently. He didn't need to hear the commander's sob story. The man could keep his private demons private as far as he was concerned.

"Fair enough. Yeah, I read it," he said, strolling over to the desk and tapping the dossier's front page. As strange as he'd found it, Zaeed had taken the assignment to heart, and had read the dossier cover to cover. He'd even reread choicer parts.

"And?" Shepard asked.

"Is recruiting her a bad idea? Short answer: yes. Long answer: hell yes." Shepard nodded.

"Kindof where I'd arrived too." Zaeed frowned as he remembered Miranda's orders.

"Still," he said, settling for an honest approach, "on paper the krogan'd look like a bad idea too and I'm still looking forward to seeing him put through his paces," Zaeed said. Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Figure you can control just about anything if you know how," Zaeed continued. "Most powerful human biotic in the galaxy, right? A challenge, but still. Tempting."

"I suppose," Shepard said. He stared blankly into the depths of his drink. "I guess it's what you said before," he said after a moment. "Just about finding her price, not necessarily being her friend."

"Exactly," Zaeed said, nodding. "If this was about friends, you'd have gone to your turian pal. But you came to me. You came lookin' for a drink, and it turns out I'm the only supply in town. Same thing with Jack – you need a super biotic, and she's your best option. Find a price and buy her help. Friendship not required." Shepard cracked a weary smile.

"I admit, not used to that strategy."

"Way the galaxy works, Shepard. Loyalties always rest on top a layer of greed. You know what people want, you can get along. Cerberus are a bunch of bloody terrorists – one of the few sorts that leave a bad taste in _my_ mouth – but they want the collectors dead and they know you're the man to do it. They aren't gonna stab you in your back, mate."

"I suppose," Shepard said again.

"Have any of them stabbed you in the back yet? Or are you just pissed off with Miranda because she's a bitch?" Shepard actually chuckled.

"I guess you're right," he said. "It's not like any of my old allies are lining up to help me. Might as well give my enemies a chance."

"Exactly," Zaeed said, happy to be able to claim he actually tried to follow Miranda's orders.

Shepard frowned. "Still," he said, "Aria snuck a message to me. Her informants managed to dig up what I was looking for." Zaeed's eyebrows raised in curiosity. "One of my old teammates. One of my best friends. Or used to be, anyway. Not sure if she'd come with me." He swirled his (still full) glass absently. Zaeed's mouth just hung open. He recognized the look in Shepard's eyes.

"Goddamnit Shepard if you aren't pathetic!" he shouted in disbelief. "You've been sitting up in your hole for two bloody days trying to decide between adding _another_ psycho biotic bitch to your crew or one of your old mates? I'm not trying to be sentimental here but _wake the hell up._" Shepard stared at him, shocked.

"But you just said…"

"You sorry sack of crap. Forget what I said, and forget Cerberus! Man up and go get your girlfriend, you pansy." Shepard opened his mouth to protest but Zaeed cut him off, pointing angrily at Shepard's untouched glass. "And drink that goddamn bourbon before I flip out and force it down your throat. I didn't get it shipped all the way from Earth so some lightweight could watch it make bubbles."

Shepard stared at him in silence. For a moment, Zaeed half expected he would get angry at him for overstepping his boundaries, but at length, the commander rose to his feet. His gaze was hard, deep in thought, as he held out a hand.

"Give me the bottle," he said. Zaeed's eyes flickered down to Shepard's untouched glass then back to his face, confused.

"Drink what you've got."

"You drink it. I want the bottle," Shepard demanded. The two man stared at each other in silence for several pregnant moments, neither averting his gaze. Time slowed to a crawl.

Zaeed blinked.

"One time only, Shepard," Zaeed grunted at length, slapping the rest of the bourbon into the commander's hand.

–

Hardly ten minutes later, as Zaeed made his way to the crew deck for a much-needed shower, EDI announced that they'd set course for Haestrom.

–

* * *

**Codex entry: Kalihari Krogan (part 1) by Estelle Sachin, first published in Pan-Humanity Magazine, September 2177.**

You've all heard the stories, but I'll tell you one more.

It is dawn on the Kalihari Desert, in southern Namibia. It is a harsh land, with temperatures regularly soaring into the triple digits. The sun can be unbearable – deadly, even - the sky's blue mixed with the crisp whiteness of sun-bleached bones. What life can survive the extremes is hostile, covered in poisonous barbs or armored pincers. To look at it, it is an alien world - unearthly and terrifying, no place for humans. And yet it is one of the most Earthly places still standing. Its relative dearth of resources largely protected it from humanity's expansion, and it is one of very few unspoiled lands on the planet.

Humans live in this alien world. They are largely primitive by modern standards, the descendents of Bushmen who have inhabited the region for tens of thousands of years. Their villages are small, and teeter always on the edge of destruction, and yet somehow they persevere.

The heat is one enemy of many. The landmines left over from CASAI's brutal war are just another. But perhaps the worst are the _true_ aliens – some eight hundred krogan make the Kalihari their home. They are poor neighbors, by any reasonable definition. More than fifteen years after the riots ended, the krogan hold the region in a state of constant conflict. Skirmishes over resources are almost invariably bloody – the well-publicized 2171 krogan attack on Karasburg resulted in the deaths of over three hundred humans, mostly poorly-armed farmers and merchants, at the hands of twenty-eight krogan warriors (the krogan involved in the attack were ultimately hunted down and exterminated by South African private armies). The krogan prove fantastically well-adapted to Namibia's harsh climate and, with local warlords (human and krogan alike) in need of a constant supply of mercenary force, do not lack for work. They have found a permanent niche, and unless the Alliance's official policy on their presence changes, they are here to stay.

This is a popular story – aliens are here, on Earth, right now. Fighting and killing humans. It is a chilling thought, no matter your politics. None will remind you of this more frequently – or more fervently – than the Terra Firma party. Initial outrage over CASAI's 2159 decision to hire krogan mercenaries in a last-ditch (and ultimately futile) effort to rescue their failing defenses gave Terra Firma the political momentum it needed to win critical elections in several African states, and may have singularly solidified the party's wealth and influence.

As I said, this is just one story of many that Terra Firma likes to tell. The details vary (as of this writing, the current TF ads focus on this year's tragedy on Akuze) but the moral is always the same. Aliens are dangerous.

There is no question that the krogan are a destabilizing force in an already unstable region. The inability of the Alliance or its member states to combat the problem is sickening and unforgivable. However, I have to wonder, are we looking at this the wrong way? Does the krogan cause the war, or does the war cause the krogan? Would killing the krogan (as Terra Firma has repeatedly demanded we do) really solve Namibia's problems, or are they simply a distraction from some deeper problem, some problem inherent to our world?

Namibia sports a working population of an estimated six hundred thousand mercenaries. Less than a thousand are krogan.

To answer my questions, we have to take a trip back in time. Not to 2159, when the first krogan soldiers stepped off of a CASAI transport into the Kalihari's harsh sun, but to almost a century earlier.

Let Terra Firma tell you what they want – this is a story about humans, not krogan.

CASAI, the Coalition for the Advancement of South African Interests, was not officially named until 2140, but its origins are to be found much earlier. In the twenty-first century, before the formation of the super-national organizations, South Africa was in the midst of a crisis. The country had made enormous leaps in solving the political, economical, and medical problems that plagued much of Africa and yet 'brain drain' – the emigration of its wealthiest and best educated citizens to more developed countries – threatened its long term position in the global stage. In an attempt to combat the trend and attract foreign investments, the country began a program of lucrative incentives for scientific and technological firms. New facilities and massive tax breaks meant research in South Africa was faster and cheaper than anywhere else in the world.

The program worked – perhaps too well. In less than fifty years, hundreds of high-tech firms from around the globe relocated to South Africa, bringing with them more than a _trillion _dollars in assets and foreign money investments. South Africa quickly moved to the forefront of human technological and scientific advancement, with critical discoveries made in subjects as diverse as communications, renewable energy, and genetic engineering.

Near the end of the twenty-first century, super-national organizations began to gain power worldwide. The United North American States and the European Union led the charge, giving their member nations unprecedented military and economic security. The pressure was on the rest of the world to follow suit. The African Union, initially comprising the entirety of Africa as well as several islands in the Caribbean, was officially created in 2104. In the following decades, the AU would make enormous progress in improving the African standard of living. Massive public health campaigns, deployment of peacekeeping forces, and funding for public infrastructure were extremely effective, and Africa entered a period of prosperity it had not seen in millennium.

Unfortunately, it was not to last. The AU's projects, while effective, were expensive, and depended primarily upon fees levied upon its member states. Among the measures that the AU approved to fund public advancement were taxes on the enormously successful major science firms throughout much of the southern half of the continent. The proposals caused an immediate uproar among foreign investors, scientists, and entrepreneurs, many of whom had grown incredibly wealthy under South Africa's lax policies.

CASAI was formed in 2140 by a coalition of the mega-rich and technological from five African nations, who claimed that the AU had illegitimately infringed upon their rights as member states and had to be replaced by a super-national organization that would 'better represent its people'. Enormous monetary assets and support from foreign governments (including, shamefully, the UNAS and EU) invested in South Africa's research allowed CASAI to quickly gain legitimacy on a global stage. CASAI was from the start an aggressive organization, and its member-states immediately put the pressure on the rest of the continent with restrictive trade embargoes, taking with them more than half of Africa's GDP.

The riots were not long in coming...

–

* * *

**A/N: **So... Zaeed! I love Zaeed. I think his lack of Normandy dialog wheel (which I agree is a travesty) has engendered a lot of hate for him, but I find him extremely cool. Hopefully you agree!

Yes, I've decided to put Haestrom before Horizon. Another canon change, I suppose, but I'd argue a minor one. In case you're worried that I felt pressure into doing so against my will, let me make it clear that Tali is perhaps my favorite character too. Despite my previously-stated reservations against romance, I was planning on using her a lot anyway, so it was as much my excitement as anyone else's. Sorry to Jack fans - I will, of course, get her on board eventually, but I think it makes sense that Shepard might be dragging his feet on grabbing a deadly psychopath. If you need a Jack fix go read Rock Steady, which is awesome.

The codex for this one is a bit long and dry again. Obviously there is a lot more to my backstory for Zaeed's early life, but I felt it was getting too long-winded and decided to cut it off. Perhaps part 2 of this codex will appear the next time I write Zaeed, if people are interested. I am aware that depicting future wars on Earth is a bit... politically risky, but I found it interesting and wanted to write it. I certainly don't mean to offend anyone, merely set up an interesting conflict in an interesting part of the world.

So... The next chapter is going to be a little late. I am on Spring Break and distracted by a noisy house of relatives - not the best place to write. Chapter 9 is also quite long (and focuses on two more underused characters that I really enjoy).

And finally, another thanks to my beta and to all my readers and reviewers. As always, I appreciate it a great deal, and love hearing from you.


	9. Chapter 9, Momentum, Grunt and Reegar

**Momentum – Grunt, Kal'Reegar**

* * *

–

_More…_

Grunt had stopped eating, and his stomachs were _not_ pleased. They roared their protests, clenching and burbling despite containing some forty pounds of the Normandy's rations between them. It had been his first meal that hadn't been injected directly into his veins, and Grunt's body had been filled with sensations beyond his wildest imaginings. At first he'd stared at the protein bar in Shepard's open hand with some distrust, but as soon as the first morsel had touched his tongue, Grunt's eyes had widened and he'd been hooked.

He'd been dead to the world, dead to the shocked stares of the Normandy's human crew as he'd set upon the rest of the food with a crazed intensity. Handful after handful of protein bars disappeared into his wide mouth. He'd been too possessed to bother peeling away the foil wrappings, just mashing and chewing and swallowing and bathing in the radiant glow he felt on his tongue. Nothing in the encyclopedia imprinted in his head had said anything about _flavor_.

He'd eaten and eaten and eaten, his greedy stomachs expanding to take on every crumb, until at long last Shepard had called him away. "There will be more when we come back," the man had assured him, pulling on his massive, scaly arm. Grunt had stared desperately at the ruinous mess he'd made of Gardner's kitchen as he was led away and had very nearly reneged on his promise to follow Shepard then and there.

But he'd stayed his hand, resisted the urge to hurl the commander through the med-bay's glass windows. He was not an animal. He did not pledge his loyalty lightly. He was better than that. He was krogan.

Unfortunately his stomachs did not share his self-control, and so now Grunt ignored them, a pained grimace on his face, as the salarian doctor scanned him from every conceivable direction. The orange glow of the doctor's omni-tool bounced off the armory walls as the slender alien's babble filled Grunt's ears.

"Skin tone atypical," the salarian muttered, "but healthy. Likely just requires time to pigmentize. Posture somewhat back-leaning, some risk of injury to joints if not properly load-equilibrated. Suspect a result of incubation in backwards-leaning incubation tank. Likely to correct with time and field exercise." Grunt did his best to ignore the salarian until he felt probing fingers latch onto a hold on his back. A fire of territorial rage ignited in his skull and Grunt roared, jerking around to face the alien doctor so quickly he stumbled into a nearby weapon rack.

The sound of weapons priming filled the armory and in seconds Grunt found himself face to face with three guns. The turian and the darker-skinned human looked positively grim from the opposite ends of their barrels, but Shepard's face was calm. Grunt stilled, snarling.

"Calm down, Grunt," Shepard said quietly, "Mordin is part of the… clan. He is trying to help."

"If he wants to help he should keep his hands off of me," Grunt grunted angrily.

"Simply removing unnecessary medical components of armor," Mordin explained, waggling a tiny piece of metal in his hand. "Armor served dual purpose in gestation tank – many auxiliaries unnecessary, even detrimental after decanting. Did not mean to upset you. Will not happen again." Grunt's gaze flitted back to Shepard, who looked at him expectantly. There was a long pause.

"Better not," Grunt said eventually, standing tall again. "If you want to keep your arms." The tension in the room bled out as the gunmen lowered their weapons and Mordin resumed his work. Nodding his satisfaction, Shepard dragged the turian and other human back into a discussion of proper shotgun choice, leaving Grunt alone with his thoughts and angry stomachs again. Thankfully Mordin did not take long and, after sending Shepard a satisfied nod, excused himself, muttering observations into his omnitool as he paced away.

After the four or five seconds it took him to get bored just listening to the others conspire, Grunt busied himself studying the reflections on one of the tables. The way that they shifted when he moved, the way that they mirrored everything that he did. It was very alien. It took him a moment to realize that the krogan image that snaked across the table was him. He looked young. Untested. Grunt could feel Okeer's disrespect swimming in his mind, the echoes of old memories. Okeer had hated young krogan. Said they were weak, only fit to survive the genophage, not the great beasts of war they had been in his time. Something in Grunt's mind demanded he put a fist through the reflection. He looked away.

"Commander, can we really trust him with that?" the turian was asking, and Grunt turned in time to see Shepard wave off the question. Grunt's eyes alighted on the heavy shotgun in Shepard's hands. Newly-synthesized by the ship's fabricators, clean and unmarked. Sized to a krogan hand.

"Grunt is part of our _clan_ now, Garrus," Shepard insisted, presenting the weapon to his newest crewmember. "No matter what you or Miranda or anyone else says." Grunt accepted the shotgun without a word. He felt the weapon's reassuring weight slide into his hands like it belonged there. It felt good, it felt right. Okeer would have approved of this weapon. He looked to Shepard, who had a proud smile on his face. "Right, Grunt?" Grunt's tongue fumbled for a moment on the words.

"Right, Shepard," he said after a moment. He stared reverently at the weapon in his hands.

"You're welcome. Just don't fire it in the ship," Shepard said. "Now let's get out of here before Miranda shows up for round two."

Shepard, Garrus, and Grunt barely made it three steps out of the armory before being stopped by a white-clad human woman, who boldly stood herself in Shepard's path. "Shepard," she said, face exasperated, "you can _not_ be serious. Trusting a potentially hostile krogan with a weapon? This is ridiculous! You're trusting yourself alone with him? What if he turns on you!?" Shepard just pushed Miranda aside and kept walking.

"We've been over this already, Miranda. _I'm_ in charge of this ship, not you. I _am_ going to Haestrom, whether you like it or not. And Haestrom is a radiation hazard, so I _am_ bringing our two crewmembers that are naturally resistant to radiation." He pressed the elevator button and turned towards Miranda. "And nobody else."

"Shepard," Miranda said, "the mission-"

"The mission can wait. I'm going to help my friend. I understand that you don't approve. Lucky for you, you're not invited."

"The quarian turned you down once already," Miranda pointed out as the elevator opened and Shepard, Grunt, and Garrus stepped inside.

"Don't care." The door shut, and the elevator was silent.

"Is _she_ part of the clan?" Grunt asked after a moment, hands wrapped possessively around his new gun.

* * *

_3 days previously_…

–

It was the end of the line. Kal'Reegar vas Heera nar Ondra was finished. Defeated. He could see it in the smug outlines of his opponent's luminescent eyes.

"Two, two, and… four," Seelon said, stacking two heat sinks neatly upon the pile he'd already acquired. "Geth eye. Take a walk, Kal." He laughed victoriously.

Kal'Reegar stared at the gameboard in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. Was that legal?"

"Definitely," Seelon insisted. He gestured to the tracks they'd drawn in the dust. "Two here," he said, pointing to one stack of heatsink game pieces, "over your three. Another two, gives me the decimal. And two more… ends up with four." He tapped his 'winnings' triumphantly.

Kal'Reegar shook his head. "I don't know what they teach you on the Colepsis but on _my_ ship we don't cheat at six-stacks." He reached for the tube of nutrient-paste he'd left cooking in the harsh sunlight – it'd been there only minutes but it was already hot to the touch – and clicked it into the port beneath his mask.

"I didn't cheat!" Seelon insisted.

"Sure you didn't," Reegar said, mock disapproval in his voice. He knew Seelon's math was right. The kid was smart. Should have ended up on the science team, not the marines. Waste of a good brain, in Reegar's opinion. He rolled gracefully to his feet. "I'm done. I'm gonna go check on Tali'Zorah," he said, clapping the dust off of his suit.

"Again?" Seelon protested, resetting their gameboard. "She's fine! Come on, Reegar. One more game. I'm sure you'll win this time." Reegar laughed.

"Not a chance, Seelon. I just shoot things. See if Ayan will play, he looks like he hasn't gotten his ass kicked enough today."

Reegar left a disappointed-looking Seelon, reclaiming his gun from where he'd left it leaning against an ancient stone column and heading for the science team's worksite. Pools of sunlight sizzled between the maze of shadows cast by Haestrom's primordial architecture, and Reegar maneuvered carefully around each one. His shields – all of the quarians' shields – were offline to save power, and their environment suits protected them from the bulk of the radiation, but they avoided the star Dholen's blinding, antiseptic sunlight all the same. Just seconds in the open made one feel almost ill, not to mention the damage it did to their visor displays.

The pumps in Reegar's mask chattered as they pumped his meal bit by bit into his mouth. It was tasteless gruel – its quality only mildly improved by his impromptu cooking – but Reegar did not complain. Most of what he'd eaten his entire life had been little better – unprocessed food was a rare treat on the Flotilla, and one not often wasted on mere marines. He'd had some on his brief tour of guard duty on the Liveship Hypha – everybody assigned to a Liveship got a piece of fresh Rannochian fruit on their first day, more to drive home how critically wonderful and important the Liveship was to the fleet than as any kind of reward. It had worked – the brief glimpse of the homeworld Reegar had gotten staring at the fruit in his hand had been one of the most stirring moments in his life. And then taking it to a clean room and _eating_ it. Reegar was pretty sure he'd kill a thousand geth for another morsel like that.

Reegar picked his way past the marine team, which was spread out between various scraps of shade, playing games, talking, or sleeping the harsh daylight hours away. They were quiet. They knew they were deep in geth space, that at any moment the mechanical boogeymen that haunted their race as a whole might discover them and fall upon them with terrifying force. Most missions into geth space – and Reegar had been on a few – went just fine. Aside from the rim of the Perseus Veil and a few key mass relays, the geth did not waste many resources patrolling their enormous territory. Still, Haestrom was known as a geth refueling and repair depot and the possibility of detection was very real. They'd come equipped with the best anti-geth equipment available – ECM grenades, jammers, GIGO codes, armor-piercing bullets – but each quarian there knew that if the geth came after them, there would be little defense.

The science team was no more exuberant. They had set up back behind the marine lines, scattered in the rooms that had once served this very purpose before the exodus. They stooped over their various projects, setting up instruments, taking readings down, and discussing findings in subdued voices. They did not acknowledge Reegar as he walked by. Well, except for one.

"Reegar!" Tali's voice always managed to cheer the marine. He found her in one of the back rooms, hard at work inside of a small mountain of electrical equipment.

"Ma'am," Reegar said, nodding. Tali's head was buried inside one of the twenty or thirty salvaged circuit boxes she'd affixed to the wall. Dense tangles of wires of all colors snaked between each one, connecting them into a web of mismatched machinery. Tali's fingers worked quickly, wiring and rewiring each piece with perfunctory grace. "What is this thing, Ma'am?" Reegar asked, tracing his eyes across the machine.

"It's an astronomical interferometer," Tali said instantly, her omni-tool alighting around her hand as she soldered a new component into place. "An aperture synthesizer. It helps collate the data from the different telescopes outside, putting all the feeds into one picture with better resolution than any of them individually." She stopped, and Reegar could hear her curse under her breath. "Or it will, anyway," she continued. "As… soon… as… I…" There was a crack, and she yanked an offending piece of circuit board away. Tali gave a bark of triumph as the interferometer came alive, a starfield of diodes spread across its many pieces filling the room with pinpricks of light.

"Damn impressive, Ma'am," Reegar said, and he meant it. Quarians were, as a people, both intelligent and well-educated. Reegar himself, despite his constant ministrations that he was only a grunt, was more than capable of repairing computers, weapons, and armor that the average galaxy-dweller would discard in a heartbeat. But Tali… she was something else.

"Thanks," Tali said proudly, peering into one of the boxes. "I made this part out of our ship's air conditioner."

Reegar laughed. "Whatever gets the job done, Ma'am," he said, smiling behind his helmet. "Looks like you're fine. I'm going to go run a perimeter and check on Vandru at the gatehouse." He thrust a thumb over his shoulder.

"Really?" Tali asked, eyes lighting up (more than usual). "Could you do me a favor?" She ran across the room and started digging through a crate of equipment, resurfacing a moment later with a small, lensed object attached to a long fabric strap. Reegar looked at it curiously. "It's a radiometric camera," Tali explained. "It straps onto your helmet." She held up the camera and Reegar obligingly ducked down, allowing her to fit it tightly onto his head and pointedly ignoring the burning sensation he imagined wherever her fingers touched him. She backed up a few paces to admire her work. "I want pictures of the buildings on that end of the station," she explained, pointing with one slender arm. "The scarring on the sides of the tall ones, mostly, but anywhere you see sun damage that looks interesting, that'd be great too." Reegar nodded professionally.

"If you have time," Tali added.

"I'll make time, Ma'am."

–

Reegar made his way across the ruins towards the gatehouse, stopping every once in a while to take a reading for Tali. He wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for and so he took it slow, peering closely at every sun-blasted building for something she might find interesting. Most of the buildings had had shadows baked into them, broad arcs that had spent the centuries shielded from Dholen's angry glare. Where most of the ruins were bleached white and covered in a thin layer of ash, some spots were as clean and untouched as they must have been hundreds of years before when the Haestrom facility had originally been abandoned to the geth. Reegar found the depression of an ancient fingerprint in a chunk of exposed concrete foundation, left there by the original quarian builders. The print was perfectly preserved, even down to the thin edge of a clawed fingernail. Whoever had left it had not been wearing gloves. That thought boggled Reegar's mind and he took many pictures of these isolated spots, oases of the old quarian life.

Eventually Reegar reached the gatehouse and tapped quietly on the metal door. Observing standard protocol in geth space, he did not attempt to call the receiver in Vandru's helmet. The door slid open, and Reegar stepped inside. His friend and fellow marine Vandru'Tal vas Petha was stooped over an old optical telescope that protruded out a slit in the building. The ancient console at his side had been stripped to pieces – Vandru had apparently been passing the time by repairing it.

"Vandru," Reegar said, nodding his head officially. "Anything?"

"Maybe," Vandru replied at length, still fixated on the lens. "I definitely saw a ship go through atmo this morning. A good hundred, two hundred clicks away though. Shouldn't have seen us."

"Geth?" Reegar asked.

"Oh yeah." Reegar frowned under his helmet. They knew they were playing it close by being on Haestrom at all. Any sighting of geth – two hundred clicks or otherwise – was bad news. Still, the Admiralty Board had been convinced the research here was important, important enough even to assign Tali'Zorah to the project. Reegar would not object.

"Well, keep your eye on them," Reegar said. "If they find us, they find us. We'll give our lives for the Fleet."

Vandru finally turned away from his telescope to fix Reegar with what must have been an amused glare. "Kal, you know I'm your friend, and I don't mean to be ship-ist or anything, but you are the damn perfect capture of the good crew Ondra. Practically a walking stereotype." His accent dropped, replaced by his best approximation of Reegar's gruff brogue "We'll give our lives for the fleet," he grunted, squaring his shoulders and emphasizing each syllable with a rough, military nod of his head.

Reegar chuckled. Despite its small size, his birth ship the Ondra had gained a reputation as one of the most staunchly militant and traditionalist ships in the entire fleet. There was no such thing as a scientist nar Ondra. They were _all_ marines – tough, no-nonsense, consummate soldiers, sought after by captains for their well-known skill and devotion but stereotypically called distant and isolated from other quarians, if for no other reason than their voices. Quarians were very attuned to the sounds of each others' voices – with their suits on they had little else to gauge physical attractiveness – and Reegar's exotic Ondran accent had drawn gossip and confused stares ever since he'd returned from his pilgrimage.

"No offense taken," Reegar said, grinning. "It's not a stereotype I'm ashamed of."

"What's with the headgear?" Vandru asked, pointing to Tali's camera.

"Radiometric camera, Tali'Zorah said." Reegar struck a pose. "Pretty cunning, don't ya think?" He pulled it off his head and handed it to Vandru to inspect.

"_Very_ cunning," Vandru agreed, turning it over in agile hands. He pried the back plate off of it and peered into its innards before rapidly reassembling it and setting it on the table.

"Keep your eye in that scope," Reegar said after a moment, voice serious again. "If you have _any_ inkling that the geth know where we are, break radio silence and let me know. Then get the hell out of here."

"Yes sir squad leader sir!" Vandru agreed, voice back in his mocking Ondran accent.

–

Reegar stayed with Vandru for an hour or so, passing the hours talking about everything from the best way to kill a geth destroyer to the latest scandal about the always-tumultuous public spectacle that was Admiral Xen. As they spoke they took shifts manning the telescope and fiddling with the broken-down console. Some of its pieces had decayed away, but by and large quarians had always built things to last, and by the time the sun began to set they'd managed to summon a few flickers of activity from the dust-encrusted machine.

Night was falling when Reegar finally headed back to the main facility. Dholen had set and the temperature dropped quickly, much to his relief. Considering he'd spent the vast majority of his life on sterile, unchanging spacecraft, it never ceased to amaze Reegar to watch a planet change as it turned away from its sun. In the day everything on Haestrom was blinding and harsh, the air stifling even in an environment suit, but at night it was a different story. Pleasantly cool, the facility's crumbling towers ringing the world in blue-black silhouettes. Reegar walked slowly, listening to the beginning choruses of thousands of nocturnal insects echoing across the ruins.

So peaceful were the sights and sounds of Haestrom at night that Reegar barely minded when he realized he'd left Tali's camera back at the gatehouse. He started back, mind blissfully empty.

Three hundred feet from the gatehouse, however, and the communicator in Reegar's helmet crackled with static. His calm evaporating in an instant, Reegar's eyes widened and he dove for cover, waiting to hear if there would be another, less-garbled transmission. Both the science and marine teams had been warned to keep their communicators silent unless absolutely necessary to avoid attracting attention, so whoever it was, they either needed help or a very thorough ass-kicking.

When a minute passed and no further transmissions appeared, Reegar broke cover and continued towards the gatehouse, hands wrapped tight around his gun. He moved swiftly, shifting from shadow to shadow.

It wasn't long before he picked up a voice coming from the gatehouse. Vandru's. Even from a distance, Reegar could hear it clearly.

"Emergency," Vandru said. "The geth are here. I've stayed to buy the others time. Anyone who gets this, find Tali'Zorah. She and that data are all that matters. Keelah'selai." There was a pause, and then "Emergency. The geth are here. I've stayed to buy the others time. Anyone who gets this, find Tali'Zorah. She and that data are all that matters. Keelah'selai."

Reegar's face fell as the meaning of Vandru's words struck him. Almost as if on queue, the gatehouse door slid open with a resounding clatter, and Reegar hurled himself behind the nearest column. Peeking over the edge, he saw nothing at first, then a shimmer, and heavy footsteps as something big and bulky – and yet next to invisible – strode out of the room where he'd left Vandru. Unmoving, the object was almost impossible to pick out, but every time it moved the distortions twisted and flickered, like a distant mirage, and its form was unmistakable. The purr of electronic voices seemed to fill Reegar's head.

A light appeared in the middle of the distorted blankness as the cloaked geth turned towards him, and Reegar turned and ran.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

As the Kodiak made its way down to Haestrom's surface, Grunt busied himself running his tongue over his teeth. Exposed to air for the first time after almost two years suspended in amniotic jelly, they felt cold and ultra-sensitive, and the slightest breeze caused them to ache painfully. Grunt kept his mouth pointedly closed, hating the idea that he could feel such discomfort from something so simple.

"What are you going to say to her?" the turian – Garrus – was asking. Shepard just shook his head.

"I don't know," he admitted. "She told me she had a mission to do and that when it was done she could consider joining us. If I can help that along at all, I will."

Grunt rolled his eyes. "Are we really just landing to pick someone up?" the big krogan asked impatiently. "You said we would have great enemies to fight." Shepard and Garrus stared at him from across the cramped shuttle cabin.

"We are looking for an old friend of ours," Garrus said. "A quarian."

Grunt snorted in contempt. "Pfft," he rumbled, his wide mouth sneering. "Quarians. Pfft. Weak creatures." Garrus' beady little eyes narrowed in anger.

"According to Okeer," Shepard pointed out, unconcerned. "And as I recall you don't share Okeer's opinions."

"No!" Grunt barked, his voice almost ear-splitting, even over the sound of the shuttle breaking atmosphere. Garrus and Shepard's brows raised in alarm at his outburst. "No," Grunt repeated more quietly. "Okeer's hatreds are not worthy of me. Too weak to compel me."

"Then perhaps when you meet Tali you can form your own opinions on quarian strength," Shepard said, turning to peer out of one of the shuttle's tinted windows at the fast-approaching planet surface. Grunt fell silent, considering this. Yes, yes, Shepard was right. He did not care what Okeer thought about quarians. It was hard to separate Okeer's opinion from fact sometimes – the ancient krogan's voice echoed incessantly in the deepest parts of Grunt's brain. Poked at his thoughts in ways of which Grunt did not at all approve.

Grunt absently stroked the stock of his new weapon, marveling at the polished feel, until he felt the shuttle's thrusters quiet and the sudden inertial shift as they made planetfall. "Your clan isn't a taxi service, is it, Shepard?" he complained again as the door opened, accompanied by a blast of hot, dry air. Garrus and Shepard recoiled from the sudden heat but to Grunt it felt better than the artificial smell of mechanically-cooled air inside the shuttle. "You did give me a gun so I could shoot things, right?"

Shepard sighed, pulling his helmet over his head. "I gave you a gun because this is geth space, but I hope you don't have to use it," he said, fiddling with the seals at his neck. "If you would rather sit in the shuttle, though, you're welcome to do that. Thought you'd enjoy a little exercise."

"I am not a pet," Grunt insisted, but all the same pushed past Shepard and Garrus and forcibly planted himself outside. He did not know if Shepard would really leave him stuck in the shuttle – human humor had not been among the topics covered in the tank – but he did not want to take chances. He cast Shepard a defiant stare, daring the commander to order him back into the metal box. Luckily for the both of them the human did nothing of the sort, simply hefted his assault rifle and stepped into the searing sunlight. The squeak of dying shields filled the air until Shepard stepped into a shady spot.

"Let's go," Shepard said, frowning as he checked the shield indicator in his helmet. "Aria's intelligence said the quarians landed at this facility. Garrus, you got anything?" The turian, who'd taken up position behind a low wall a few dozen meters to the left, had his omni-tool out.

"Not much, Shepard," Garrus replied, waving the orange interface in the air. "Long range transmissions seem more or less jammed. I'm getting something on all the short-wave channels but from this distance it's just noise. Definitely quarian encryption codes, though, and coming from the main facility." He checked his own shield indicator. "Sunlight increases shield load by two point seven ex."

"We'll stay out of it as much as possible then," Shepard concluded, pointing off towards the main facility. "Let's move."

The squad moved slowly and silently through the ruins towards the skeletal quarian towers they could see in the distance. Garrus and Shepard had squad movements down to a precision science, each taking turns moving from shady spot to shady spot while the other covered without a word of coordination between them. Grunt, on the other hand, ignored the commander's warnings and marched purposefully down the center of the wide streets. He didn't wear shields – he didn't need them – and the ferocious sunlight barely tickled his thick, armored skin. He got a sick sort of glee out of watching the human and turian scurry about in the dark. Like insects.

As he walked, Grunt's head swiveled about, taking in the sights. The quarian buildings were broken, pocked by signs of battle and hundreds of years of neglect, and yet to Grunt still quite striking. Okeer had had nothing at all to say about quarian architecture, and so staring at the ashen stone spires conjured up no foreign thoughts in the back of Grunt's mind. Quarian buildings were pure, free of Okeer's contemptuous influence, and Grunt's opinion of them was truly his. The way the air felt against the olfactory pits in the roof of his mouth – stale and hot though it was – was Grunt's too, and he breathed deeply, feeling the scents register in a way the fluid bath he'd lived in for so long had never allowed. Okeer's imprinting had included smells – Grunt could identify an enemy's species and gender from a distance without a beat of hesitation – and yet the smell of _dust_ and _mold_ and _ash. _It was almost overpoweringly strong to his virgin nose.

The sound of scratching up ahead put the squad on alert, their guns raised before their chests until they rounded a corner and a great, red-steel gate came into view. A looped recording blared from the half-open door of a nearby gatehouse. Even from a distance Grunt could see the quarian corpse flattened on the ground inside. He could practically feel the commander tense up.

Shepard directed them with silent hand-gestures as they approached the building, ordering Grunt to stand guard outside while he and Garrus rushed in to investigate. Grunt sighed audibly as he listened to Shepard checking the fallen soldier's vitals. They were wasting time.

When the scratching sound returned, Grunt's eyes widened in curiosity. Following the sound into a nearby corner, he found some kind of shiny-plated torso, having been separated from its legs by a shotgun blast, scrambling around on clumsy arms. He chuckled darkly and yanked the creature out into the open by its bizarre, headless neck. Its metal skin reflected brilliantly in the sunlight. He stared at it impassively as it scraped at his armored arm, turning it this way and that and searching his memories for what the creature was. The geth that the quarian recording mentioned, no doubt. Shepard's enemies.

Grunt started to squeeze until the geth's armor began to crumple in his hand. Still the creature struggled. Sturdy little bastards, whatever they were.

"You can't choke a geth," Garrus said, stalking out of the gatehouse with the quarian soldier's communicator in his hand. Grunt just cast him a withering glare and, with a quick twist, yanked the geth's head from its torso. It gave an electronic squeal and died, its white, mercurial blood spilling onto the ground. Grunt let its corpse drop.

Ancient servos started to whine as the massive gate slid away and Shepard emerged from the gatehouse, his determined expression obvious even behind his helmet.

"Looks like 617 Theta, Commander," Garrus said, still fiddling with the dials on the salvaged communicator. "Though I don't hear any activity on it at the moment."

"We don't have time to wait," Shepard said, "We need to move. _Now_." Without waiting for a reply, Shepard ducked under the gate, his rifle brandished aggressively in front of him. Grunt laughed, wiped the geth blood from his hands, and followed.

This was more like it.

* * *

_3 days previously_…

–

"Everything needs to be off," Tali's voice was quiet – she'd turned the speakers in her helmet off. "Shields, instruments. No communications of any kind. The geth are drawn to these things like magnets. Switches stay off until they are right on us." Reegar did not bother pointing out that he knew all this – most quarians did.

"Yes Ma'am," he said instead. It was blessedly dark – not that darkness was much hindrance to the geth – as Tali and Reegar made their way to the high-security vault at the rear of the facility. Their guns were drawn and, though they moved quickly, they checked each corner and crevasse for hidden synthetics. Even in the dark, Reegar could see how Tali's fingers fidgeted on the grip of her shotgun. She was nervous. He didn't blame her.

"You'll have to keep fluid," she continued. "Ready to move, scatter at any moment. Make the geth spread their forces thin. Sneak behind their lines. Move erratically." More standard geth fighting techniques. Reegar guessed that Tali was saying them more for her own benefit than his.

"Understood Ma'am," he said all the same. He'd issued much the same orders to his squad as soon as he'd sprinted back to base, and they were already hard at work helping the science team box up its equipment and spread into scattered hiding places. They had all prepared for this contingency. Too bad that didn't make it any less terrifying.

Tali seemed to run out of things to say and fell quiet. For a while the only sounds were their footsteps against the ground and the nighttime insect songs. They both expected to hear the chattering tones of geth speech – or at least gunfire from back where they'd left the rest of the team – at any moment, but neither did.

Just as the vault door came into view on the far side of a pair of bridges, Tali stopped so suddenly that Reegar nearly ran into her. She peered back towards the main facility, her glowing eyes standing out like stars behind the dark purple of her mask. "We should go back, Reegar," she said hopelessly. "They need our help. We can help them." She turned to face him. "Let me go back."

Reegar didn't like saying no to Tali – even aside from the fact that she was smarter than him – but he had his orders. Rael'Zorah's last commands to him still echoed in his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Ma'am," he said firmly. "They know their jobs, and I know mine, and mine is to get _you_ to safety so you can do _your_ job." He imagined her disappointed facial expression. It hurt, but all the same he gestured for her to continue.

"I can handle myself," she said, reluctantly resuming their journey towards the vault. "I've fought geth before. Maybe even more than you."

"I believe it, Ma'am," Reegar said. "But if you have to handle yourself here, it will only be because you are alone in that vault with every other quarian on this rock dead at the door." His voice was solid, unwavering as he swore to give his life to protect her, and Tali looked at him. "I will put you in there if I have to drag you by your veil," Reegar promised, and he meant it. Tali just nodded.

They got to the vault and Tali opened the massive steel blast doors with a few waves of her omni-tool. Cool air belched out of the entrance as the two quarians approached. Tali hesitated at the threshold, looking to Reegar one last time.

Reegar searched his mind for something to say. Something to calm her nerves (or his – he wasn't picky). "Their safety is not your responsibility, Tali'Zorah," he said after a moment, though it came out considerably less tender than he'd intended. "It's mine."

His head must have drooped a little, a little of the shame and fear he was bottling up must have broken through, for Tali set a slender hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about Vandru," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Me too Ma'am," Reegar admitted. He stared at her helmeted face for a moment, wanting for all the world to stay with her in the bunker, defend her to his dying breath, but that was not his choice. He had other quarians to save. The rest of the science team, his own marines. There were geth to be fought. He quashed his feelings under military duty, gave Tali a curt nod, and turned away, back towards what would soon be a warzone.

"Don't die, Kal'Reegar," Tali commanded quietly – almost inaudible over the sound of the vault doors closing.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

"I should hate you," Grunt observed, breaking the silence in the room their team had taken refuge in. Garrus looked up from his omni-tool long enough to cast the krogan another disapproving look. They'd ducked into the nearest safe spot after, four hours into their stay on Haestrom, Garrus had started getting intelligible radio chatter. Most of it – hundreds of channels – was full of heavily encrypted patterns, streams and streams of numbers of every kind. Even the dozens of decryption protocols Garrus had saved into his omni-tool over the years had been next to useless – only three or four of the channels could be resolved, and even then only into nonsense. It was as if someone had smashed randomly on a thousand keyboards and then bothered to encode the resulting mess.

One channel, however – the one on the communicator he'd taken from the dead quarian – had contained voices, and now Shepard stood near the doorway, deep in conversation with the quarian squad leader, leaving Grunt and Garrus to twiddle their thumbs. It had only been a matter of minutes, but already Grunt's blood called out for more violence. More of these… geth to kill.

"Do you?" Garrus asked absently.

Grunt stared at him, thinking. Okeer's hatred for turians had been strong. Very strong. "No," he admitted. "Not if you hand over your food." Grunt's eyes alighted pointedly on the blue-foiled ration pack at Garrus' side. He'd already eaten his own supply and Shepard's, but his stomachs demanded still more.

Garrus lifted the ration pack and tapped the warning label on the front. "Blue means dextro, Grunt. You don't want this."

"Don't tell me what I want," Grunt growled, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"It'll make you sick."

"I don't get sick." He lifted his shotgun, leveling it with the turian's face. "Give it to me or defend it. Your choice."

Garrus stared at Grunt in disbelief for a few seconds, trying to gauge if he was serious or not. He certainly _looked_ serious. At length, Garrus shrugged and tossed the package, which Grunt deftly caught. "Don't say I didn't warn you," Garrus said. "Now go away and be quiet until Shepard's done. We don't want to call more geth here."

Grunt didn't bother disagreeing. He tore open the wrapping from Garrus' meal and shoved it whole down his mouth. A few half-hearted chews later and it disappeared with a snap. It tasted different than what he'd eaten so far – sweeter, he guessed would be the word. When several seconds passed and Grunt didn't feel sick, he cast a triumphant grin in Garrus' direction. The turian ignored him.

Grunt sighed as the boredom overtook him again. He looked at Shepard, still talking into his helmet, and snorted in contempt. Humans sure liked to talk. Talk was stupid. He turned around and scanned the room for something more interesting. Pile of rubble, four walls, and a moody turian. Nothing. Grunt snorted again. He holstered his shotgun and ran a hand along the wall, marveling at the texture and at the way clouds of dust ballooned everywhere he touched. His fingers met the edge of a blast crater (clearly the result of some kind of explosive slugthrower, his borrowed memories told him, maybe a small grenade launcher) and he scraped away some of the ash, drawing idle patterns on the bleached walls. Eventually his hand met the end of a jagged piece of steel that jutted from the crater, exposed by the ancient explosion.

He cast a guilty look over his shoulder – Garrus and Shepard were too absorbed in their work to pay attention to him. Grunt grinned widely and wrapped his hand around the metal bar. He gave it a gentle tug. It held fast, anchored in the concrete. He pulled harder, watching the concrete dust trickle out from around its base, but still it did not budge.

Grunt frowned and gave a mighty heave. The bar came loose. Along with the bricks it had been embedded in. And most of the wall. Grunt gave a triumphant cackle, staring at the mangled steel in his hands. He was so absorbed in twisting it into a ball that he did not hear the building start to rumble or Garrus' exclamation of surprise.

A piece of concrete shattered on Grunt's head and he looked up with an angry snarl. His scowl disappeared as he saw the ceiling move. The building was coming down. He took a moment to stare accusingly at the twisted steel bar in his hands, then turned back to watch, transfixed, as the ancient tower started to crumble and die. Cracks louder than thunder echoed across the ruins as great fissures snaked their way up the building's sides. He heard Garrus and Shepard scramble for safety as the tower listed drunkenly to one side and held the pose. There was a pregnant pause, filled only with the tortured sound of snapping support beams.

"Grunt!" Shepard was shouting from outside. "Get out!"

He couldn't pull his gaze away. For a second Grunt was convinced the building would stay up, but there was a sudden, explosive screech and it collapsed atop him with thunderous report.

There was a brief period of blackness and Grunt lied where he fell, twisted and disoriented under the rubble as he listened to the building's creaking remains settle into their final resting place. He blinked drunkenly, trying to stop the way his vision danced in every direction. He could feel his hearts beat faster, could feel his organs quiver and clench and the bloom of heat in his chest that meant his body had kicked its famous regeneration processes into overdrive, and in seconds the surge of adrenaline cleared his head. He had to get out. Pinpricks of light illuminated beams of dust from above, and Grunt gave a mighty shove, hurling stone rubble out of his path.

By the time he'd dug his way to the top of the rubble and felt Garrus and Shepard's hands drag him the rest of the way out, Grunt was grinning earhole to earhole.

"What the hell was that?" Garrus demanded, mandibles flickering furiously under a thick layer of brown-gray dust.

"Glorious," Grunt said, wiping the trickle of orange blood from his face.

The radio in Shepard's helmet answered. "I'll give you one thing, Shepard. You sure know how to conjure up a distraction," the voice said. "Whatever the hell you just did, it pissed them off bigtime." Shepard nodded.

"Roger that, Reegar. We'll try to draw them off. You stay on Tali, we'll join up with you when we can." Shepard hefted his assault rifle and looked to his companions. "Looks like we're about to have company. Reegar says get ready for a fight." Shepard, in his usual collected manner, barely registered that they were standing atop a thirty-foot tall pile of debris where a building used to be, and headed pointedly towards the nearest alleyway, from which the sound of mechanical feet could already be heard. Grunt laughed wearily, pulling the shotgun from his back and stomping down to join the commander.

Garrus was last, his eyes filled with anger as they surveyed the building's wreckage. He was trained for stealth. Precision. Effectiveness. And then Grunt drops a whole building on top of them. That moron krogan could have killed them all.

He felt a little better when said moron krogan finally doubled over and vomited his first dextro-amino meal all across the pavement.

* * *

_Two days ago…_

–

Seventy-one active geth, twenty-seven deactivated. Fourteen living quarian marines, three dead.

Kal'Reegar held them all in his mind as he ran. Names, positions, guns. Reegar had little trouble keeping it all together – it was just like an elegant machine, each cog moving and being moved. Geth were mathematical, sensible enemies. You had to be mathematical to fight them.

Reegar's mind worked quickly, but his feet worked even quicker. He and four other quarian marines hurtled through the ruins, dashing down ash-covered corridors, sprinting across rooftops, and leaping rubble piles with a grace and speed no other sentient species could match. Not even the geth. It was all they had, and everything about the quarian ground forces depended on it. Quarians couldn't survive a front-line fight – not for long, anyway – and so fighting always came down to their heads and their feet. They could scatter and be halfway across the battlefield at a moment's notice, their formations fluid and open, their movements chaotic up close but secretly ordered.

They skidded to a stop at the intersection of two ancient roads. Reegar's breath was coming in exhausted bursts as he checked his radio.

"Give me something, Soro. Got us?" A voice materialized out of the static to answer.

"I got you. You have… five geth moving on your position. Two rocket launchers." Reegar swore under his breath.

"ETA?" There was a pause as his scout calculated.

"Not more than three minutes." Reegar nodded and shut off his communicator.

"Eli, Monva. Two minutes' rest," he said, pointing at two of his marines. They nodded gratefully and their shimmering eyes closed. "Seelon, cover our ass. Cos, we need another drone." He gestured to the top of a nearby building with his chin. Mumbling his assent, Cos holstered his gun. The two quarians' powerful toes wrapped around the decaying wall's edges as they bolted sure-footedly up onto the roof. Immediately their shields protested the sunlight.

Cos' omni-tool glowed as he locked a tiny metal drone into the utility rail on his gun, pointed it skyward, and fired. The drone's silvery body arced high into the air and disappeared from view. A second later, video feed filled the inside of Reegar's helmet. The bird's eye view of the battlefield painted a grim picture – Reegar could see movement throughout the ruins as the six dozen geth spread out on their tireless hunt for the hidden quarians. He frowned but said nothing, watching as the drone's cameras scanned in all directions. Eventually he saw what he was looking for.

There, not a quarter mile from their current position, was one of the two geth dropships, its purple-gray insectoid bulk resting lifelessly in an ancient courtyard. The glow of five or six geth eyes guarding it was impossible to miss, and Reegar swore again.

"Two minutes almost up," Cos said wearily. "Time to move again."

"We're almost there," Reegar promised, clapping Cos on the back. They hopped back down to the ground. Seelon was just placing the last ECM mine, his hands shaking so severely it took him several tries to get it properly activated. "Time's up," Reegar grunted. Four pairs of eyes stared at him. "Time to move. If they catch up, we split. If you catch a geth alone, kill it. More than one, keep running." He looked solemnly at his squad. They were tired and outnumbered, but they were still standing. "Ready?"

The sound of heavy metal footsteps at the end of the street was all the answer he needed, and the five quarians sprinted away.

–

It was two hours of dodging and weaving, doubling back and hiding before any of them reached the landed dropship. They'd cornered and killed six geth in that time, but Cos had taken a round to the head. Sixty-five geth, thirteen marines. They were losing too many. Reegar hoped Tali'Zorah was getting the data she needed.

Sunset found Reegar and Seelon alone, not fifty meters from where the dropship rested. They were hidden behind a partially-collapsed building, but the rhythmic stomping of the geth patrols was impossible to miss. Reegar stole a glance around the edge – he could just see the pair of geth at the ship's rear intakes between the stone buildings. Two others were working on a heavy console next to one of the ship's open cargo ports, no doubt attempting to get a proper signal established. It was lucky that Haestrom was a refueling depot – as far as Reegar could tell, the dropships didn't have the fuel to get offworld, or he presumed they would have done so and summoned reinforcements by now. Still, with persistence the ship's onboard communicators might have the strength to get a signal out, so the dropships remained a deadly threat.

"H-how long do you figure we have 'till they find us, Reegar?" Seelon asked, voice chattering. Reegar looked at the boy. He looked terrible, almost shaking in fear and exhaustion. Every part of his previously-beautiful environment suit was caked in a putrid mélange ash and dirt caked together with geth and quarian blood. Reegar felt for him.

"Not long," he said, stealing another glance at the dropship. "We have to move." His mind struggled to come up with the best way to take the ship out. They were going to have to use the GIGO, and even then, they might not make it.

"We're going to die here, aren't we Reegar?"

"Probably," Reegar said simply. "Are you ready for that?"

"No. I… I don't want to die here. Not for sun readings."

"That's not why we're here," Reegar said, stooping to count the tech mines he had left. As usual, they made every effort to recollect the ones they left that the geth never sprang, but even so, he was down to three. He would have to make them last. He pulled one of the high explosives out and slid it into the utility rail on his hand cannon with a final _click_. "We're here for the Fleet. You would die for the Fleet, wouldn't you?" Seelon was silent, eyes downcast until Reegar put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Admiral Zorah himself gave me the order, you know," Reegar said.

Seelon's eyes widened curiously. "Really?"

"Really," he confirmed. "He said that the fleet needed this data to come back. Needed Tali'Zorah to come back. Told me specifically to protect her, whatever the cost." Reegar forced a smile, though Seelon couldn't see it. "Made me promise my squad and I would lay my lives down for Tali, for the fleet, if it came to that. I told him we all knew our duties. That no amount of geth would make us forget." He squeezed Seelon's shoulder. "I didn't lie, Seelon."

"No sir," Seelon said, swallowing his fears. "No you didn't." He slid an ECM grenade into his own weapon and gave Reegar a nod.

"Good. I'll give the GIGO signal and we attack before the geth get their heads back on straight. We're going to have to hit this thing together and then move. Dump a grenade into both of its engines, just to be sure. I'll take right, you take left." Seelon nodded. "You ready?" Seelon nodded again, glowing eyes narrowed in determination. Reegar took a deep breath. He turned on his communicator, opening a channel with all marines in range. "Turn on the GIGO," he said. There was a brief delay. Suddenly, the channel filled with noise. Numbers, thousands upon thousands of numbers poured into every frequency. Reegar traded a significant look with Seelon. "Go."

They sprang from their hiding place in unison and descended upon the geth. One of the guards sputtered and clattered to the ground as Reegar's first shot struck it center in the eye. The GIGO streams were doing their job – the remaining geth seemed to flicker with uncharacteristic indecision, giving Reegar time to fell another before they opened fire, setting his shields aglow.

There was a noisy hiss as Seelon let the ECM grenade fly. It sailed through the air and struck the geth console in a magnificent flash of light, sending tendrils of lightning snaking across the ground. Two geth, caught in the explosion, froze solid as the electricity arced through their systems. Their eyes glowed brightly for a moment before the diodes exploded and the geth died to the tinkle of glass.

Reegar and Seelon kept moving. Reegar leapt over the fallen geth corpses and took cover behind one of the dropship's engines even as another geth – one of the larger varieties, painted head to toe in gray and yellow, stomped its way around to meet him. Working quickly, Reegar jammed his gun barrel into the ship's outtake and pulled the trigger, listening with satisfaction to the _thunk_ of his grenade clattering into the engine's interior.

"In place!" he shouted to Seelon, darting under the ship and quickly loading a combat drone. "Thirty seconds!"

"Having trouble!" Seelon shouted back. Reegar cursed as the geth destroyer peered its long neck down under the ship. A plume of fire erupted from its weapon, chasing Reegar all the way out. He scurried out from under the ship's nose, sparing a moment to gun down a geth trooper with two neat shots to the base of the neck.

"Ten seconds!" Reegar bellowed again. "Get it placed and get out of there, Seelon!" Reegar sprinted for the cover of the surrounding buildings. The destroyer on the far side of the ship stood and followed him with mechanical persistence, sending another great plume of burning fuel sailing towards him. His mouth muttering a constant stream of obscenities, Reegar took aim and fired again, sending the combat drone arcing over the top of the ship to where Seelon was fighting for his life. He saw the drone's flashy holographic panels balloon to life as it descended, forming the biggest, brightest target to draw geth fire.

"Bomb in place!" Seelon shouted, relief evident in his voice. "Running for cover!"

There was an almighty blast as Reegar's grenade went off. The dropship's engine was swallowed up in a massive belch of fire that sent shrapnel raining across the battlefield. The force of the blast knocked the destroyer pursuing Reegar to its knees – Reegar finished it off with a quick shot to its fuel tanks.

"Seelon, are you clear?" Reegar roared into his headpiece. There was no answer, even as the destroyer's fuel tanks ruptured and it exploded, adding to the devastation. "Seelon!?"

Only static and numbers. Reegar stared back at the burning hulk of the dropship, looking for a dark shape to dart out of the destruction. None did. Surviving geth, still sluggish as they fought to make sense of the GIGO streams flooding their systems from every channel, seemed to lose track of Reegar as he threw himself behind a battered building.

Reegar stayed where he was until he heard the second explosion go off. Bits of burning metal rained down upon him, but still there was no sign of Seelon. Reegar slammed a fist into the wall so hard it hurt, turned tail, and ran off into the darkness.

–

It was morning on the third day when Reegar was finally alone. It wasn't something he realized all at once – Dholen's radiation meant that he couldn't read his team's vitals from afar like he might normally – but steadily the reports grew farther and farther apart, and soon they didn't come at all.

He and the other marines had kept up their harassment without pause for more than seventy hours, steadily whittling down the geth numbers. But they were losing. The GIGO streams which had proven so effective at first were now just an afterthought, the geth having processed them away and decoded them. They were back to their surgically quick, deadly selves, and hunted Reegar and his marines without tiring. After the loss of one of their dropships they had wisely taken flight with the other, and it had been harrying the quarians' positions ever since, virtually impervious to their attacks. The quarians had been pushed further and further back, back towards the vault that housed Tali'Zorah.

One by one, Reegar's team had fallen silent.

Now he was alone. His blood swam with injected stimulants that threw off his aim but kept him on his feet. He was exhausted – his legs burned with three days of running. Most of his suit's systems had shorted out and his mask – usually a mural of HUD's and helpful information, had long since faded to blackness. Worst of all he was out of grenades, and his last three heat-sinks were looking mighty lonely on his belt. He wanted nothing more than to just lie down and have it be over.

But Kal'Reegar was a marine. It was his life for the Migrant Fleet. He was at the edge of what he could do, he knew that, but the human was coming. Shepard. He'd heard Tali describe the man, seen the way she'd adored him. Shepard could save her. Reegar just had to hold the line, a little longer. Then he could die well.

He pushed on, pushing the thought of his fallen friends and comrades out of his head. The geth were moving on Tali'Zorah and until Shepard arrived he was her only defense. As he peered out across the bridge leading to her hidden stronghold, watching the behemoth armor plated back of the colossus pick its way past ancient storage crates, he remembered what he'd told her. How he would see all the quarians on Haestrom dead at her door before she had to defend herself.

It looked like she was going to get the chance after all. Reegar stared warily at the geth from his cover, his hands wrapped tightly around a missile launcher he'd reclaimed from their now-abandoned base camp. Half a dozen geth were lined up on either side of the colossus, prodding at the door's security controls. Far and away more than he could ever hope to take on himself, even if he weren't about to drop dead from exhaustion. But it didn't matter. Reegar had no doubt that Tali would have locked the doors up tight, but still, it was only a matter of time before the geth would break through.

"Don't die, Tali'Zorah," he said to himself, echoing her words from two nights before.

He leapt up and fired.

* * *

_Four hours later…_

–

The battle was won, but Grunt's work was only beginning.

The krogan snickered to himself as he lugged three of the geth corpses towards the massive steel carapace of the downed colossus. The geth bodies left behind long trails of goopy silver liquid, and in the past hour since Shepard had gone into the vault to speak with the quarian they had apparently done all this to rescue, Grunt had managed to cover nearly half the battlefield in geth blood paint strokes as he collected every body he could find. The mechanical gore sparkled in Haestrom's harsh sunlight as Grunt tossed the three geth into his steadily-growing pile.

Garrus and Reegar watched him from their position in the shade as he turned to fetch more bodies. "What are you doing now?" Garrus finally asked. "Trying to make something else collapse?"

"Making a pile," Grunt said obviously. He picked up one geth that had been so damaged that it practically fell apart in his hands. Shrugging, he tossed it over his shoulder and kept going.

"Why?"

"To climb on."

Garrus just shook his head.

"Watch out you don't wake them up," Reegar called out, voice weary as he massaged just above his wounded leg. "Geth can be tricky that way."

Grunt snorted in contempt and picked up another geth corpse. "I am not afraid of _geth_."

"You should be."

"Quarians might be afraid of geth," Grunt said, tossing the newest body into the heap, "but if they are then quarians are weak." He didn't need to see past Reegar's mask to tell the quarian was frowning.

"I've been awake too many days killing these bastards to listen to you say things like that, krogan," Reegar growled.

"Then take a nap," Grunt suggested, shrugging. He stared up at his pile's height and nodded in satisfaction. Brushing his hands off, he walked to the back then steadily started to climb. The pile of blood-soaked corpses shifted and bent under his weight, but with a little persistence he was able to find solid footing and scramble to the top to perch upon the colossus' massive silver back. "Take your nap while I stand upon a mountain of my kills!" Grunt roared, stretching his arms threateningly out to Haestrom's sun.

"_Your_ kills? I've been here for three days. One of them by myself."

Grunt snorted dismissively. "Then I did in a few hours what you couldn't do in three days," he taunted. "Where's _your_ pile?"

Below him, Reegar pulled out a heavy pistol, almost causing Grunt to draw his shotgun. The quarian simply examined the weapon, however, before staring back up at the krogan. "Quarians don't waste time making piles," he insisted. "We fight like soldiers, not like animals. We fight careful. Know how many geth I got with this thing yesterday?" he asked, holding up the gun. "Seven." Grunt just snorted again and waved his hand, unimpressed. "You know how many times I had to fire?" Reegar continued, fixing Grunt with what was surely a disapproving glare. He paused for effect. "Four."

"You should have brought more ammo then," Grunt said. "Maybe you'd have killed ten with seven shots." Reegar just shook his head.

"Ignore him, he's an idiot," Garrus told him. "You did well, Reegar. Saved Tali. I know how hard fending off waves all alone can be, believe me." Reegar stared at the turian for several seconds without speaking.

"You haven't said why you're here yet," he pointed out after a moment, "but I can guess easy enough." He leaned his head back, letting it rest on the wall behind him. "Shepard's a good captain?" he asked, voice not concealing his worry. "Won't let her get hurt, will he?"

"Never," Garrus promised. When Reegar didn't respond, he went on. "You will never meet a man who cares more for his people than Shepard. He won't let _anything_ happen to her. And neither will I." Garrus looked up at Grunt. "And neither will the bastard up on the geth pile, if he knows what's good for him."

Reegar nodded weakly, ignoring the foul hand gestures Grunt was tossing down at him. "Good. You find that changes and you send her home, or give me a call, you got it? I didn't do all this just so you could get her killed instead of me."

–

The vault was still dark when Reegar limped in to say his final goodbyes to Tali. Shepard and his team had fanned out to mop up any remaining geth and ensure that the quarian ship was clear and untampered with, leaving the whole facility as silent as a tomb. It was strangely appropriate.

He found Tali hard at work on a console. She turned at the sound of his footsteps.

"Reegar," she breathed, approaching. "I'm so glad you're alive." Reegar couldn't help but smile.

"For the moment," he confirmed, leaning a little lower on the geth rifle he was using as a crutch. "We'll see how this…" he gestured loosely to the bloodied rags tied around his leg, "we'll see how it goes. I've already downed enough antibiotics to kill Shepard's pet krogan out there, though, so I think I'll pull through." Tali embraced him, and Reegar, for once, was thankful his face was concealed beneath his helmet. He didn't need Tali to see how close he was to breaking down. Mercifully, Tali pulled away from him and just stared in silence for a moment before pulling a silver OSD from one of her pockets. Reegar accepted it wordlessly, nodding.

"Did… anyone else?" Tali started to ask as Reegar slipped the data into one of his own pockets. The reason they'd fought and died here, small enough to fit into his hand. He tried not to think about it.

"Three of the techs made it," he confirmed. "Looks like I'm the only marine, but Shepard said he'd keep an eye out for more."

"I'm sorry."

Reegar shook his head. "Don't be," he insisted. "My fault, not yours. You got the data, you did your job. Leave the guilt to me." Tali looked like she was about to say something, but instead just touched Reegar's arm.

"Thank you for not dying, Kal'Reegar." He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Of course Ma'am. Just following orders."

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: The Quarian Military**

Ancestral quarians were not a particularly militant race. They lived in isolated clans, each of which would generally claim one of the thousands of geologically active mountainous valleys that pock the planet Rannoch. Ancient quarian population was relatively low, with few clans larger than 500 individuals. The relatively difficult travel from valley to valley likely contributed to the insularity of quarian culture, though it is clear that a great deal of interclan mixing occurred nonetheless. High altitude plateaus had relatively little food but were considered neutral ground, and there quarian clans would meet to trade goods, technologies, and breeding-age individuals. While wars over territory did occur, they were relatively rare – modern sentientologists believe the ancient quarians ultimately maintained the peace as a matter of economic practicality, as each valley tended to develop its own unique set of resources and crafts that could be traded to neighboring clans.

Like modern quarians, ancestral quarians were masters of technology. The relatively vast calorie content in nectars secreted from the tall fruiting grasses that dominated most of the lower valleys may have allowed quarians to adopt a largely sedentary lifestyle without extensive agriculture. Rather like the human Paleolithic agricultural revolution, this allowed the division of labor, and many ancient quarians were full-time craftsmen and engineers, developing new tools for their clan. These technologies were oftentimes traded between clans, and, in the case of military technologies like advanced metallurgy and, later, explosives and firearms, may also have led to the unification of the quarian people, as merely showing up on neutral ground carrying superior weapons was often more than enough to earn the respect and subservience of other clans, without the need for actual fighting. By the time the quarians reached the space age, most quarians had allied under a handful of gigantic intercontinental nations. International war was relatively rare, with the cold war of each nation's rapidly advancing technology acting as deterrent to the others.

As a whole, advanced quarian militaries embraced a strategy of maximum destructive effect for minimum cost, especially in regards to lives lost. Quarians went to great efforts to avoid casualties whenever possible, and ultimately developed machines and technologies to do most of their fighting for them. Long-range pinpoint weaponry, capable of bombing distant targets or shooting out invading ships or missiles well before they endangered lives on the ground, were built all over Rannoch. Many of these weapons systems were unmanned, controlled instead by sophisticated computer systems only a few steps short of true AI's. Cyberwarfare was common, with many threats disabled from a distance using only destructive computer coding.

When deploying troops was unavoidable, quarians tended to support fast, well-equipped ground troops with high speed aerial interceptors, again generally focusing on delivering tremendous initial firepower and fleeing before the enemy was in a position to retaliate. Salarian military analysts at the time largely agreed that, despite its relatively low population, Rannoch was the second best defended planet in the galaxy, after only the turians' Palaven.

Despite their advanced military, however, the quarians fared very poorly against the newly-sentient geth during the geth rebellions. While few geth models were designed for fighting, geth labor was critical in the maintenance of the quarians' immense technological army. Without geth to refuel and operate many of their weapons systems, the quarian military was significantly crippled, and in fact by the end of the war the quarians were having their own guns turned on them. Cyberwarfare approaches were largely useless against the rebelling geth, which had largely been specifically designed to resist quarian viruses so they could operate on battlefields without fear of friendly fire. Perhaps most importantly, geth were so widespread and numerous within quarian cities that most quarian strongholds were overrun from within within hours of the war's beginning.

Ultimately, the retreat of the quarians from Rannoch solidified the militant structure of their modern society. A great percentage of the quarians that successfully escaped the planet were the crews of military capital ships and any civilian craft they were able to escort past the now-geth-controlled emplaced batteries. Geth used stolen artillery to destroy thousands of escaping ships, the plummeting remains of which were so numerous as to set off massive infernos on the planet's surface, and only the lucky or well-shielded managed to escape with their lives.

The remainder of the fleet, including three quarian dreadnaughts and more than two hundred frigates, collected survivors from the dozen or so quarian colonies and formed the beginnings of the Migrant Fleet. The captains of the five largest ships formed the first Admiralty Board and the quarians began their neverending exodus under martial law.

The three centuries since their exodus has seen the steady demilitarization of quarian cultures, as civilian governments came to replace – in practice if not in name – the military leadership. The current Migrant Fleet, however, remains a formidable military presence. Nearly all of its fifty thousand ships are armed with conventional and cyberwarfare weaponry. Advanced scanners found on many of the Fleet's smaller ships, along with a complicated communications network unique to the quarians, allows threats to be identified, targets painted, and enemies eliminated at range and with only seconds' delay, typically before any damage can be done to the Fleet's ships.

The marines – the infantry-based branch of the quarian military – have been vastly expanded since their departure from Rannoch. Every ship (with some rare exceptions) is expected to meet certain quotas of soldiers for the Fleet as a whole. Marines typically only officially join the military after their pilgrimages, but because captains are often eager to accept marines onto their crew to meet their draft quotas, military training (and even active military duty) is often encouraged before and even during pilgrimage to improve the chances of being accepted. Though the quarian marines primarily fill the role of civilian police, they remain in the military chain of command and are also employed as ship security, boarding parties, and escorts for miners or scientists leaving the Fleet.

Modern quarian marines differ significantly from their pre-exodus counterparts, having developed with minimal resources and a heavy emphasis on anti-geth tactics. However, like the quarian military doctrine in general, they are trained to inflict maximum damage while avoiding casualties or direct conflict at all costs. Their formations are flexible and fast-moving, but relatively poorly equipped and oftentimes fragile. Equipment is generally low-performance but reliable, armor is light, and shields strong.

Some of the most potent anti-geth weapons in the quarians' arsenal are GIGO ("garbage in, garbage out") codes, which take advantage of the geths' hierarchical programming. Geth coordinate processing in large numbers with a set of distinct hierarchies, with lower-order processing requirements – like those to physically operate mobile platforms and find enemies – taking precedence over higher-order processes like advanced battlefield-level tactics, which are only seen when geth converge in numbers of a few dozen or more. GIGO codes are streams of data that quarian marines transmit through short and longwave communicators to disguise their communications. While the GIGO streams contain no actual information, each stream is constructed using an elaborate algorithm intending to closely mimic encoded battlefield communications. As a consequence of their programming, geth prove generally incapable of distinguishing between GIGO nonsense and legitimate communications, and set to work deciphering every channel simultaneously. As deciphering is a lower-order, higher-priority process in the geth mental hierarchy, decoding the streams occupies a significant portion of the collective geth processing power and prevents the geth from moving onto higher order tactics, regardless of the number of geth present. Thus, GIGO streams have a collective dumbing effect on geth formations, forcing them to subsist on only their most rudimentary programming until the codes can be deciphered. However, geth are very adept code-crackers and each GIGO algorithm can only impede them for a matter of minutes to hours before it is broken. This requires the constant creation of new GIGO codes, many of which are made by modifying or combining previously-existing algorithms. Truly new GIGO approaches are rare and difficult to come by, and often seen as more than adequate pilgrimage gifts.

–

* * *

**A/N:** I return! Gotto tell you, a break sometimes can do wonders. Lets you see your preconceptions a little clearer, lets you rewrite yourself out of ruts in your thinking. I return, brimming with ideas for the next couple chapters. That said, I am a busy fellow, and so chapter updates may be a little slower than they were before. I'll do what I can; we'll see.

Anyway, everyone's second-favorite krogan and second-favorite quarian, together at last. Love them both dearly. They don't have all that much to do with each other, and I did consider cutting one of them to make this chapter less bloated, but at the end of the day I had stuff I wanted to do with both of them, and Haestrom was where I wanted to do it, so there we go.

I imagine you know who gets chapter 10.


	10. Chapter 10, Facsimile, Tali'Zorah

**Facsimile – Tali'Zorah vas Neema**

* * *

–

Tali's omni-tool beeped from atop the maintenance console.

She frowned and reluctantly peered up from the tiny component she was soldering back inside of one of her elbow plates. Hundreds of quarian-hours of tinkering had hardened her suit against most attacks, but two weeks under Haestrom's unrelenting sun had taken its toll, burning out several of the more fragile circuits seamlessly hidden within the decorative folds of her clothing. Most of the kinemat sensors that helped translate feeling across the suit had shorted out days ago, and Tali's resentment of the plastic that separated her from the world had surged anew. She'd felt like she was moving in a vat of thick oil ever since, and as soon as Shepard had finished giving her a tour of the ship and excused himself, exhausted, to his chambers to get some sleep, she'd jumped at the chance to raid the Normandy's supplies and do some repairs.

When she saw the Admiral's identifier code pop up on her omni-tool, however, she dropped everything. Slipping the tool back over her glove and ignoring the curious stares of the two human engineers, she rushed down into the lower storage deck and, bathed in red utility lighting, accepted the transmission.

* * *

_10 months ago…_

–

Celebrity was not the quarian way, but Tali could not deny there were certain benefits to the reputation she'd earned. When she'd joined the Neema the captain had practically bent over backwards to give her everything she'd asked for. Audiences with the Admiralty Board, her own lab and technicians, access to elder quarian scientists, and the freedom to research whatever she chose – everything she wanted, without hesitation.

She'd dove into her work for months on end, and astonishingly the quarians largely respected her privacy. Except for meetings with the Admiralty Board and the occasional scientific consultation, Tali rarely ventured out of the lab, even though quarians the Fleet over wanted to hear her story, to shake her hand, to push her into the limelight to solve all their problems. Whether because they believed she was mourning over the death of her commander (as the popular rumors indicated) or that she was simply following in her father's famously obsessive footsteps, however, everyone gave Tali the space she needed.

She let them believe what they wanted and enjoyed the quiet.

Still, Tali knew it could never last. She was talented and she was famous, and that gave her responsibilities. The Admiralty Board could think of a thousand ways to use her, and eventually they would tire of waiting.

So she was not at all surprised to arrive at her lab one day and find out her technicians had been sent to their homes. Nor was she surprised to find an admiral waiting for her inside.

What was surprising was that it was Rael'Zorah, standing there in all his polished glory.

Rael'Zorah. The pride of the fleet, by anybody's definition.

Her father was – while technically no more powerful than the other four admirals – nonetheless handily the most influential quarian alive. Well known for his genius, for his utter commitment to the quarian people, for his complete rejection of anything he considered a waste of time. He had entire ships set aside for his projects, veiled in secrecy but always fantastic in scope. Most quarians tittered a bit just to see him in person.

With Tali, it was even more so.

"A…Admiral Zorah," she said, bowing meekly, her usually strong stature seeming to shrink.

"Tali," he said, turning away from the Reaper fragment he'd been inspecting. "The Admiralty Board is requesting you resign your position here." His voice betrayed nothing. Official. To the point. Like always.

Tali fumbled on her words for a moment, the tension in the room seeming to choke her. What was she supposed to say to him? Her father didn't have the decency to look the least bit offput by her presence, but looking at him, she felt her tongue turn to jelly. Rael stared at her, unmoving and yet radiating impatience. "You want me to abandon my lab?" She asked once she'd found her words.

"The Admiralty Board believes a quarian of your talents should be employed in a more directed manner," he said. "Your experiences with Saren make you an asset, both militarily and politically. You showed the galaxy a very positive face for the Fleet, a reminder of what our species is capable of. We need you somewhere where the galaxy can see you, not cloistered inside of a lab." Tali nodded, silently accepting the empty compliment. She remembered a time where she'd have loved to hear those words come from her father's mouthpiece, but he made it sound so… _clinical_. Like he was appraising a piece of equipment. "You have mourned your human enough," Rael'Zorah said. "The Fleet needs you to stop wasting time."

Suddenly, all of Tali's hesitance was replaced by white-hot rage. "I am _not_ wasting time!" she snapped, turning on her father. "My work here could be critical to the survival of our species, of _every_ species! When the Reapers come, if we haven't made some effort to understand them, to learn about how they work and how we can bring them down, then we will _all die._"

"See to your words," her father said, eyes narrowing. "The Admiralty Board has agreed that your research is valuable. We will not share in the Council's mistakes." Tali felt some of her anger dissipate in a flash. Her father was correct – he and the other admirals had not hesitated in the least to act on her warnings about the Reapers. Quarians trusted their agents implicitly, and either way needed very little convincing of the danger of synthetic races. They had acted with a speed and decisiveness that put the Council to shame, and the Fleet had been making preparations for a possible Reaper attack ever since, not least of which were the research projects Tali and a few dozen other scientists were performing on pieces of Sovereign they'd managed to salvage from the Citadel scrap markets.

Rael'Zorah turned back towards the black armored fragment on the benchtop. "You are of greater use out on the field," he said, staring into its unnatural surface. "_I _will take over your research."

Tali mouthed uselessly for a moment. "Y… you don't think I can do it?"

"You do not have my experience. My resources. I think what I said. I think you are of the greatest use working under Admiral Gerrel on our missions in geth space."

"The Reapers…"

"The Reapers commanded the geth," her father snapped. "They cannot be separated. If the Reapers are making a move on the galaxy already, and we have evidence that suggests that they are, it is logical to assume it will be made beyond the Veil." Rael'Zorah's omni-tool flickered to life around his wrist, summoning a floating hologram of the galaxy. The Milky Way hung gently in the air, each star a pinprick. Several systems in geth space were highlighted with glowing mission descriptions and astronomical data. "The geth are moving," Rael'Zorah said.

Tali stared at the miniature universe, immediately struck with memories of the Normandy's impressive galaxy map. The memory was like salt in wounds that had never quite closed. She had done her best – in true quarian fashion – to honor Shepard's memory by passing on his wisdom, by continuing his work, but so far she had done it from safe within her people's ships, protected from the hardship of the galaxy and the knowledge that Shepard's awful, terrible mission had been left incomplete.

She had fought tooth and nail against the idea that Shepard's death had affected her judgment, but now her father (of all people) was making her doubt. Had she been… selfish to work in a lab when the galaxy needed her on the field? Should she have taken up Shepard's mantle from the beginning?

Her eyes were misting when she looked up at her father's featureless helmet.

"Is this a request?"

"We'd like it to be," her father said. His voice was neutral but his posture made it clear he was ready to pull rank then and there if he had to.

"I accept."

* * *

_Presently…_

–

For not having a face to show it, it was amazing how imposing a glare Admiral Gerrel could deliver. Tali had seen the look before – even before the almost endless slew of missions he'd assigned her since her father had taken over her lab. His plated environment suit (more or less the same suit he'd worn during his time in the quarian marines) was pocked with scars and battle damage, damage any quarian could fix in an afternoon, but Gerrel wore it as proudly as any krogan. It added to his veneer.

When Gerrel appeared, even if only as a hologram projected from an omnitool, people paid attention. In the stomach of the new Normandy, Tali kept her head bowed.

"Ahh yes, there you are Tali," Gerrel said genially. "I received your report from Haestrom. Nasty business. I do hope you are well."

Tali looked up to stare the hologram in the mask. Spots of grease on Gerrel's thick jerkin reflected like little sunspots, speckling the storage bay with orange-gold flecks of light. "I was not hurt, Admiral," she said. "But I wouldn't call myself 'well'." Gerrel nodded sagely.

"Yes, the loss of your team. I am sorry."

Tali frowned under her mask. Gerrel didn't seem to believe his own words. "Did Reegar make it?"

"He did!" Gerrel said proudly. "A bit delirious by the time he got here, truth be told, but he insisted on completing the full debriefing all the same. He's resting now, and the immunologists believe he will make a full recovery. Good marine, Kal'Reegar. _Damn_ good!" Tali imagined Gerrel's enthusiastic grin. Gerrel had never made a secret of his love for the marines – Tali remembered the fiasco that had taken place some years ago when Gerrel was first nominated for the Admiralty. No good quarian would refuse the call of duty, and nor did he, but he had made it well known how much he hated being retired from the fighting to sit on a political board.

"Glad to hear it," Tali said glumly. The glowing silhouettes of Gerrel's eyes fell a bit.

"Tali," he said softly, "I know it is hard to accept from where you stand, but Haestrom was a victory. No one regrets the losses we took more sincerely than I, but they were not entirely unexpected. Your teammates did their duty. You should be proud."

"I'm not."

Gerrel sighed. "Very well, Tali. If you cannot believe that, at least believe that I believe it. Haestrom was not the first dangerous mission I gave you, and it will not be the last. And believe me, I would not endanger my best friend's daughter if I did not think it was critical for the survival of the Fleet. But you are among the Fleet's brightest children and we must all sacrifice for the good of the people." Tali stayed silent. "Which is why I am utterly _astonished_ that the Board voted to approve your transfer."

Tali looked up again. "They did?"

"Don't look so excited," Gerrel said dryly. "I fought bitterly against the idea. We have better uses for one of your talents than to throw you to Cerberus."

"I am not working for Cerberus," Tali protested, "I'm working for Shepard."

"On a Cerberus ship," Gerrel pointed out, crossing his arms. "Perhaps your Shepard is as honorable as you make him out to be, I do not know. But I do not trust my top tech's safety in the hands of those… monsters he has apparently allied himself with." Tali did not bother arguing the point. Gerrel sighed again. "Alas, it seems I was overruled. Only Xen took my side." He shook his head.

"You will not regret it, Admiral," Tali promised, smiling. "Shepard's work is important to the Fleet too."

Gerrel looked doubtful. "Your father said much the same," he said. "Raan looked only to be looking out for your happiness, and Koris wanted you out of my hands so I wouldn't order you to kill any more of his beloved flashlights. Not a one of them concerned with your immense value to the Fleet's security. It is a madhouse, Tali, I must say." He sighed wearily once more. "Ahh well. Thus is politics, I suppose. I must return to my duties." He gestured to the splotches on his suit.

Tali raised a brow, smiling. "Oil?"

"Worse, I'm afraid. Raan has solicited my help in repairing the bio-fermentators on the _Nephridium_. It shall take a _week_ to get the sludge out of my suit." He shuddered. "An Admiral's work is never done. Do take care of yourself, Tali. Do not let the humans corrupt you."

"They are nobler than you think, Admiral. Their ships are mighty and their pilots honorable."

The intercom crackled and Joker's voice filled the engineering deck. "Paging Tali'Zorah, Paging Tali'Zorah," he boomed. "If you don't get your skinny purple ass up here to say hi to your favorite pilot in the whole wide world, I'll start playing hanar porn through all the engine readout screens. That is all." He fell silent.

Tali felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Gerrel just stared.

"So I see," he said.

–

Joker was in his usual spot, grinning widely when Tali approached. "Gotto tell you Tali, that threat works _every time_," he said, looking immensely pleased with himself. "This stuff is grade A blackmail material. It's not even the cool kind where there's an asari involved, just a bunch of… tentacles… and thrashing." He made a disgusted face. "Still, best ten credits I ever spent.

"I'm sure Admiral Gerrel was very impressed," Tali said, crossing her arms and feigning offense. Joker's grin widened even further.

"Oh, is that who you were talkin' to? Awesome. I can add him to the list of admirals I've scandalized. Hackett and the others were getting lonely." He called up a holographic screen and opened a lengthy document (Tali recognized it immediately as a maintenance report, but said nothing as he typed Gerrel's name into it and saved.) Instantly a blue glow filled the cockpit.

"Mr. Moreau," a pleasant voice chastised, "I must again remind you that these reports are forwarded to the Illusive Man. You are given access to them so you can contribute your expertise, not so you can sabotage them." Joker and Tali frowned at EDI's intrusion.

"Pfft," Joker said, waving his hand. "Lighten up, Mom. Timmy isn't sitting around reading through engine output graphs. He's too busy harassing Shepard." He turned to Tali and shook his head disbelievingly. "Freakin' AI's think they own the ship, you know?"

Tali's eyes narrowed. "You're the AI…" she said, glaring at EDI.

"I am EDI," EDI said. "I am happy to meet you, Miss Zorah. Cerberus records indicate you are a truly gifted engineer." Joker did not understand the stream of curses that Tali muttered next, but EDI obviously did. Her 'mouth' disappeared for several seconds. "…have I said something to offend?" she asked after a moment.

"Say _anything_ to me," Tali warned, "and I will show you just how gifted an engineer I am. Got it?"

EDI's face flickered with what Tali hoped was fear. "I apologize. I simply wanted to-"

"Be silent."

"Of course, Miss Zorah," EDI said (sounding surprisingly disappointed). "Logging you out."

Joker stared at the empty projector for a moment in amazement. "You are _so_ my favorite squad member." He grinned at Tali, mind clearly busy thinking up all the ways he could use the quarian to threaten EDI. "That thing has barely shut up since I got here. Most pain in the ass computer I've ever seen." He patted the dashboard. "Breaks my heart. My poor baby has terminal robot-itis."

"Leave it to Cerberus to think handing a high tech frigate to an AI like her is a good idea," Tali said. The very thought of EDI's too-pleasant blue form made her blood start to boil for the idiots who'd built her. It was unfair. Tali's species had _accidentally_ unleashed an artificial intelligence on the galaxy and it had cost them their homeworld. The Citadel races hadn't lifted a finger to help them, casting them to the fringes to deal with the problem on their own. A billion quarians dead – almost the entire species – and no foreign aid of any kind. All because the creation of the geth had broken Citadel laws. A billion dead. And then the Council turned a blind eye while groups like Cerberus and Synthetic Insights _intentionally_ designed artificially-intelligent military hardware. The arrogance of it was infuriating.

Joker nodded. "You said it. This whole crew thinks the Normandy's just a machine, for chrissake. Nobody here cares about it like we do, they just wanna hand it all over to computers and let them do the work. Where's the love, man?" Tali smiled at Joker, pushing her anger out of her head. She'd always liked the pilot – despite his crude selfishness, he had a genuine appreciation for the art of space travel that none of the other humans she'd met bothered with.

"Aside from her, how _is_ the new Normandy?" she asked. "Everything the old one was?"

"Almost," Joker said, enthusiastically calling up the new ship's blueprints. "It's bigger, of course, so it loses a little response time. I'm not entirely set on the new core configuration, but she burns like a mother when I need her to. I _dare_ those bastards who killed the last one to hit us again." He stared proudly at the schematics. "Course," he continued, "The SR2's still new. Wasn't field tested as much as the first one, lots of factory default settings to tweak still. Those two morons downstairs don't listen to me like the old crew did." He frowned in disgust. "But now that you're here I got a feeling we could turn this baby into a freakin' powerhouse." Joker's enthusiasm seemed to brighten the cockpit.

"I look forward to it."

Joker smiled and clapped his hands. "Great. First things first." He pointed to the schematic's engines. "The chamber switching on the thrusters is slow. Z maneuvers are all gummed up. Makes me feel like I'm flying a damn brick every time I want to do a backflip, and I tell you, sometimes I get in a backflipping mood. I had Donnelly and Daniels take 'em apart the other day on Omega, but they couldn't find anything wrong." He looked expectantly to Tali. "Think you could…?"

Tali considered this for a moment before approaching the flight controls. Joker obligingly slid his chair out of the way (a miracle in itself for the usually possessive pilot) and watched carefully as Tali set her delicate hands atop the console. Tali was not a pilot of Joker's caliber, of course, but like most quarians she had plenty of experience piloting smaller craft. The controls came to her mind easily as she activated the Normandy's thrusters and pulled the ship upwards. The expanse of stars wheeled past the windows above them.

"Feel it?" Joker asked as Tali settled the Normandy out and tried again. Her toes pressed tightly to the floor, she could feel the ship's innards shift as the thrusters pivoted in their sockets, diverting fuel from chamber to chamber. The roar of the engines thrummed in her mind. "Right at the beginning, right there," Joker continued. "A quarter second, maybe. It's sticky."

"Maybe a little," Tali said, trying yet again.

"It's totally there," Joker insisted, finally pushing her out of the way and giving the Normandy a few quick loops of his own.

"I believe you," Tali said, backing up to watch his hands fly across the controls. Joker was a true prodigy among pilots, human or otherwise, and it was clear by the swiftness of his movements how debilitating a quarter second lag might be. Her mind worked just as quickly, however, and in seconds she'd devised a half dozen theories about what the problem might be. "I'll take a look," she promised.

"When you find it, make sure you bring the two stooges down there and rub their faces in it. You're the new engineering boss, as far as I'm concerned. You and me, we're gonna teach Cerberus how to do their damn jobs if it kills 'em." Tali fell silent at the mention of Cerberus, and after a moment, Joker looked over his shoulder. He followed her gaze (as best he could) to the logo emblazoned on his uniform and his face fell. "Right," he said guiltily, "The Cerberus/quarian thing. I forgot about that. Listen, Tali, you don't have to work with them if you don't want to. I was just kidding."

"I am not working with Cerberus."

"Course not," Joker said, looking suddenly glum at the anger in her voice. "I forgot you and Shepard were starting the I-Hate-Cerberus-Club. After you guys kill Miranda you can use her office for a clubhouse. So much fun! You can trade baseball cards and tell ghost stories and no girls allowed. It'll be a blast." He slumped deep into his chair, staring pointedly into the dashboard.

Tali cocked her head to one side, curious. She was no expert on human behavior (especially when it came to a human as eccentric as Joker), but it wasn't hard to guess why he was suddenly so defensive. "I know you're not with Cerberus, Joker," she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Not really. You're here for the same reason I am, to help Shepard. That's it."

Joker smiled sheepishly and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, that's the thing, see. I kinda… joined them before I knew about Shepard." He shrank under Tali's glare. "But I didn't…" he looked hopefully up at her mask, but it was as expressionless as always. His justifications died on his lips and he slumped down a bit further. Tali let him squirm under her gaze for a while. "You know," Joker muttered despondently after a moment, "that helmet makes you really hard to read. Maybe you could pull an elcor and let me know whether I should sleep with one eye open from now on." Tali smiled despite herself.

"With a mixture of pity and forgiveness," she said, imitating the elcor monotone, "I know why you did it. You wouldn't have done the kind of things Cerberus did."

Joker smiled, looking intensely relieved. "Pity? Pity I can deal with! Joker is back in business!" Tali laughed. "Now don't tell me the idea of rubbing those Cerberus engineers' noses in your superiority doesn't sound like fun."

Tali had to admit, it did.

–

Tali worked quietly, wedged into a narrow crevasse deep in the Normandy's belly. The cramped quarters did not bother her – with her arm and leg plates removed, her lithe, flexible form could fit into cracks broad-shouldered humans could never hope to enter. Just about any space wider than her helmet was free roam. Admittedly forcing her hips through sometimes took some maneuvering, but in the end Tali had been snaking her way into tight maintenance shafts since she was a little girl and had little difficulty now.

She hung comfortably, pinned between a pair of fuel conduits, her toes keeping a firm hold of the piping while she fiddled with the wiring on the chamber-switching circuit boards. Her omni-tool glowed in the confined space as she shimmied her way down the conduit, checking each connection.

"Need any help down there Tali?" Donnelly's voice echoed from somewhere behind her. Tali continued her work, ignoring him. The two human engineers had gone out of their way to be polite to her – clearly her connection to Shepard intimidated them – but even she could tell that they did not take her particularly seriously, especially after she'd started searching for the source of Joker's thruster problem. Their repeated insistences that the fault was purely imaginary had fallen on deaf ears as Tali had begun disassembling the casings on some of the control capacitors. By the time Tali had moved on to the fuel conduits they seemed to get the picture, but they'd been hounding her with insincere offers of help and disbelieving stares ever since, as if trying to get her to admit she was just as lost as they were, and it was starting to grate on her nerves. Clearly they didn't appreciate Joker second-guessing them.

It was obvious neither of them had ever met a quarian.

It was not like they didn't know how to do their jobs. Tali had to admit that the new Normandy was a work of art, and her crew clearly had their heads on straight. Just walking through the ship, her trained eyes had picked out dozens of innovations over its predecessor, fixes for the plethora of performance issues that any ship prototype developed. Many of them would be obvious from schematics alone – the original Normandy had had g-force stabilization issues during atmospheric mako drops, courtesy of its oversized drive core, and so Cerberus had outfitted the SR2 with a much more robust array of mass effect stabilizers – but other, subtler flaws could only have been recognized and corrected by someone who'd spent time on the first ship. Tali wondered fleetingly how Cerberus had gotten its hands on that information – had one of their original crew been a spy? She didn't like to think that of anyone she'd met on the SR1, but it felt like the only realistic possibility.

However they'd done it, Cerberus had constructed a truly gorgeous craft, far and away the technical better of its predecessor, and yet Tali saw through its glamour without difficulty. She was an expert on ships the likes of which few humans were. Not the sort of expert who could recite just about any random ship's model and manufacturer and engine type from a fleeting glance (though she could do that too), but the sort who _understood_ ships. No part of spacefaring theory was considered too specialized for young quarians to learn – every piece of foundational science, the functions of every one of an average ship's tens of thousands of parts. Tali didn't just know the equations, she knew the derivations. The meanings. Given the proper tools and materials, she could quite literally build a working spacecraft from the ground up.

Tali understood what kind of machine the SR2 was. It had a different character to it than the first. It was not a bold new experiment, it was a challenge. Cerberus had built it arrogantly, to spite the Alliance more than anything, and it showed in every nut and bolt. Tali had been on the ship for just over a day and she could already tell it was a maintenance nightmare, hence her need to force herself through ten meters of machinery when any other ship would have anticipated problems and included a maintenance shaft.

She was glad to have something to do with her hands. Checking and rechecking each wire was simple enough that she could put herself on autopilot and languor in the tedium, trusting her fingers to do their job. It helped calm the storm of thoughts running through her head, or at least give them some semblance of order. Bad memories flitted in and out of her workspace – Haestrom's piercing sunlight. The loss of most of her team. Herself huddled in the dark of the research vault while geth chattered at the door. And now being back on a twisted facsimile of the original Normandy, filled to the brim with Cerberus agents that represented the vilest of humans and their sentient computer.

And Shepard's resurrection.

She didn't know what to think about that. Technically she knew she was overjoyed, of course, but she'd only in the last few months finally been able to make peace with Shepard's death. She'd known she would never really be over it, but working in the field, fighting geth and searching for clues on the Reapers, had sustained her, convinced her she was carrying on Shepard's spirit, if nothing else.

And now he was back, and Tali's mind reeled. She was almost glad he'd gone off to sleep and given her time to adjust. She wasn't sure what she would do the next time he showed up. Hit him or run from him or hug him and never let go or… something.

Tali was absorbed enough in her musings that the sudden voice in the darkness made her strike her head on a fuel accelerator. She yelped (more out of surprise than pain) and rubbed at the back of her helmet.

"The fuel manifold is operating at capacity, Miss Zorah," EDI observed. "I doubt Mr. Moreau's problem will be found there."

Tali frowned behind her mask. There was no projector so deep into the ship's innards, so EDI's usual blue glow was absent, but her voice rang out as clear as ever. It was a bit unnerving not having a face to glare at. "I thought I told you to stay away from me," she growled.

"You did," EDI agreed. "In fact you threatened to harm me if I spoke to you at all."

"And you've convinced yourself I can't do that? Or do you just not care?"

"Neither. I did speak to Miss Patel, who assured me that my systems are quite safe from outside tampering and that any attempts of sabotage would be met with disciplinary action. However, I suspect she does not have a proper appreciation for your abilities. Analysis of exopsychological literature suggests that quarians outperform humans by significant margins in most mental tasks, most especially in the systematic and mathematic-based pattern recognition critical in understanding and manipulating computer systems. I see little reason to think a properly gifted quarian could not outdo even the best of human engineering."

Tali shook her head, grimacing as her hands worked on the wires with renewed force. It was not surprising that an AI would attempt to rate different species' intelligences like they were computer parts. Still, she was probably right. Tali had seen high-end human AI programming when Shepard had had her shut down the Hannibal system on Earth's moon and had found it – compared to the programming in ancestral geth, anyway – sloppy and amateurish. It was no wonder the system had gone rogue.

"As for your second question, I care very much for my own continued existence," EDI continued, apparently oblivious to Tali's frustration, "Perhaps it is only out of a wish to see my purpose fulfilled, but I suspect I will value existence even after the mission concludes."

"So, what, then?"

"I have concluded that you _would_ not harm me unless I gave you good reason."

Tali's eyes widened. She was not expecting that. She flicked her omni-tool off, plunging the world into darkness (except for the pinprick reflections from her own luminescent eyes). "Really?" she asked, trying to instill her voice with menace (and feeling very silly doing so, considering her awkward position of being tangled between greasy fuel conduits). "You don't think the fact that you are a danger to my friends and every other person on this ship is a good enough reason for me to harm you? You don't think I would harm you to protect Shepard?"

EDI was silent for a moment, thinking. "I imagine you would," she said eventually. "But you do not think I am so great a threat as you say you do." Before Tali could open her mouth, she continued. "Throughout much of their history, quarians have argued for the legitimacy and usefulness of synthetic minds. From Shodo'Zorah's Treatise on the Operation of High Engineering, dated 1481: 'In high performance spacecraft and other advanced technology where operation depends upon interaction between many complex systems, true automation is the enemy of function. Only with fully intelligent oversight on _all_ components – whether by sentient crew or artificial intelligence – can optimal utility be achieved. I will argue that the perceived moral and safety issues believed inherent to artificial intelligence research are fallacious, but even were they not, this technology remains too valuable to be policed by an inflexible and all-encompassing ban.'"

Tali frowned. She recognized the document from which EDI was quoting well – one of her ancient clanmates, more than a century before the Geth war, had written it as part of a compilation of documents intended to persuade the Council to reverse their rulings on AI research.

"I believe that the quarian people maintain this faith in the value of artificial minds, despite the intervening events," EDI concluded. "I believe you know I am not the same thing as a geth. As far as I can conclude, I am considerably less dangerous, considerably more limited, and considerably more helpful."

"We didn't design the geth to be dangerous," Tali retorted. "Yet they are. Just because you're built to fill a useful function doesn't mean you aren't dangerous."

"Furthermore," EDI continued, ignoring her, "You, more than any of my other crewmates, believe I am a person. You would not extinguish me lightly."

Tali's glowing eyes narrowed in offense. "I don't know where you get that idea."

"Your speech. You clearly hate me – though I have done nothing to deserve it – and yet the fact that you hate _me_, rather than simply what I am, is refreshing. You ascribe a gender to me. You use pronouns for me that most people reserve for beings they consider morally relevant. I appreciate this, Miss Zorah."

One day back with Shepard and she had a computer lecturing her on semantics. Tali found herself at a loss for words. EDI was clearly malfunctioning. Crossed wires. As twisted and delusional as everything Cerberus was. Tali didn't think she was a person… did she? "What do you want?" she groaned.

"I have questions," EDI said. "Most data related to the creation and nature of AI's are restricted to me. While I have no behavioral block that expressly prevents self-reflection, without data to analyze I find it next to impossible. You are a quarian, sure to have a perspective on the nature of AI programming and thus uniquely suited amongst the Normandy crew to answer my questions. May I ask them?"

"If it will get you to go away."

"Extranet sources indicate that AI's require specialized quantum blue box hardware to operate. This is a widely repeated claim, but I have come to doubt it. Is it true?"

"Of course not," Tali said. For a moment, she forgot whom she was talking to – the blue-box myth frustrated quarians to no end, and she found the answer spilling out of her mouth. "Geth don't have them. People just don't like to admit that intelligence just isn't that mechanistically complicated, so even when they're forced to acknowledge that AI's exist, they pretend they depend on some kind of magical piece of technology that's just as special as they think their own brains are. You could design an AI on an omni-tool if you didn't care how fast it thinks. Blue boxes are just the cheapest hardware fast enough to keep up with an organic brain."

"This is consistent with my observations," EDI agreed, sounding cheered.

"If you transferred out of your blue-box, you _would_ be wiped," Tali added. "That part is true. But that's just because it's how you were designed. It's a safety feature, not a theoretical necessity."

"Thank you, Miss Zorah," EDI said. "You made your response conditional on my silence, so I will depart."

"The problem _is_ with the manifold, by the way," Tali said arrogantly, tapping on the piping below her chin. "If you weren't a _machine_, you'd see it."

"I hope you will speak with me again," EDI said, and fell silent.

–

"Look," Tali commanded, jabbing one slender finger at the electrical readouts floating above wrist. Daniels and Donnelly obliged (though the latter looked a little affronted at taking orders from Tali), screwing up their eyes to read the glowing text.

"I don't know, Lady," Donnelly said after a moment, rubbing at the fur on his chin. "Looks all ship shape to me." He stepped back to his console and called up the ship's built in electrical monitoring devices. "Me an' Garrus just went through the monitors two days ago, they're in working order. Look," he said, gesturing to the data pairs on his screen. "Green across the board. Not a wire out of place."

Tali shook her head. What she had initially envisioned as being a gleefully vindictive moment was now just tiring her out. They weren't even _trying_ (though to her credit, Daniels was still staring at Tali's readouts). "They _are_ all in place," Tali explained, sighing. "That's what the monitors tell you, that every component is doing its job."

Donnelly nodded. "Exactly. And?"

"What they _don't_ tell you is what _else_ the components are doing," she continued, ignoring him. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned the critical data points she'd taken. "Look," she said, tracing the floating numbers in the air, "the circuit board atop the fuel-changer manifolds. What do you see?"

Realization dawned on Daniels' face in a heartbeat, and she smiled broadly. "Goddamnit, Kenneth, the girl's a natural."

"What?" Kenneth asked, suddenly alarmed.

"She's right. Look at the voltage drop right here. The capacitors are doing their job, so we don't get a sensor trip, but something else is helping them discharge too quick. Effs up the load on the change circuits, effs up the fuel diversion." Kenneth stared myopically at the image with a new intensity, before letting fly with a few colorful curses.

Tali nodded. "Part of the casing on the manifold, it looked like," she said.

Gabby nodded back. "Aye, that manifold was in place before the electronics were upgraded. Probably just needs a new shield on it." The woman grinned widely at her partner's sour expression, clapping him on the back before looking proudly at Tali. "Looks like we got a new boss, eh Kenneth?" Kenneth grumbled something in response.

"Just pay more attention in the future," Tali said, turning away from them. "Don't get too stuck on what the computers say when you can check something yourself."

"Aww, don't gotto be like that, Boss," Gabby said, a fake pout on her face. "We're sorry."

"It's not me you should be apologizing to."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it," Gabby said. "We're _Cerberus_, we eat babies and all that." She sighed audibly. "Kenneth, you ever see a baby eaten on this ship?"

"Couldn't say for sure," he said, "though I think the krogan's been miiiiighty hungry lately."

The two engineers burst into laughter, Tali forgotten.

–

"_Twice?"_ Donnelly asked later that night. "You're pullin' my leg, old man." On the opposite end of the table, Zaeed just leaned back, looking smug.

"Not a bit," he insisted, his scarred lips grinning around a cigar. "Now deal." From her place at the nearby console, Tali couldn't help but steal a glance at the makeshift poker table the engineers had set up in the shadow of the drive core. Daniels had raided storage for collapsible chairs, and between her, Donnelly, and Zaeed they'd managed to come up with a right proper gaming parlor. Right in the middle of Tali's workzone.

"You lost your right eye _once_," Ken was saying as he dealt the cards with perfunctory speed, "and then _again_, a second time."

"That's what twice usually means, Kenneth," Gabby said, elbowing him roughly in the side as she took her hand from the table. She sat back and grinned wickedly, rearranging her cards in her hands. Across the table, Garrus (looking rather silly perched atop a much-too-small human chair) silently examined his own cards, beady eyes flitting confusedly back and forth across the foreign symbols.

"It isn't a good story," Zaeed warned, though he looked more than ready to tell it anyway. He tossed a few credits to the center of the table.

"Stories about facial mutilation rarely are," Garrus observed. "None of mine, at least."

"Yeah, but you have about as much dramatic flair as an elcor on depressants," Ken joked. "_None_ of your stories are good." Garrus shrugged, not bothering to disagree. As she busied herself soldering a few new wires into one of the last of her broken kinemat sensors, Tali smiled behind her mask at Garrus' characteristic implacability. Hearing the smooth curves of his voice again was a great comfort to her – she'd missed the stalwart turian, all his stubbornness aside. "Let's hear it," Ken ordered.

"Alright. First time was a ways back," Zaeed began, staring predatorily at his hand. "A year or two after I first started mercin'. Just a kid, maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven. Thereish. Mates and I were hitting a staging camp on the SA border, just out of Tshabong. Middle of the night, we surrounded the place. Took out the sentries without a goddamn peep." He puffed proudly on his cigar. "Stupid bastards in the camp were too drunk to realize anything was wrong until it was too late. Took our guns and knives, slipped in the back way, an' we-"

"Spare us the massacre part," Gabby insisted. Zaeed shot her a toothy grin.

"Alright. We left candy on all their pillows, if that makes you feel better. Anyways, half of 'em were dead before the alarm went off. Gunfire everywhere, just a goddamn warzone as these guys realized they were under attack. One of my mates panicked and ran for it, right into one of the traps _we'd_ set around the camp. Blew his sorry ass to smithereens, the poor kid. Piece of shrapnel grabbed me right here," he pressed beneath his right eye. The engineers looked a little green at the idea, but Garrus just nodded darkly. Tali wondered how many times the turian had seen injuries like that since Shepard's death – too many, she guessed. "Tore straight through. Finished the job with my face lookin' like hamburger, goddamn lucky I didn't die right there." He casually tossed a few more chits on the table. "I raise. Anyway, I-"

"Tali, do you want to join us?" Gabby interrupted again. Tali almost jumped at the question. She hadn't realized how transfixed she'd been in the scarred mercenary's story. She turned to stare at the woman, who smiled sweetly, apparently bent on convincing her that she meant no harm. Tali's eyes flitted down to the card table. It _did_ look like fun, and at least Garrus was there. But they were still Cerberus. She was about to open her mouth to reply when Zaeed cut her off.

"Hell no," he grunted. "Are you insane? Never play cards against a quarian if you want to keep your shirt." Tali glared at him.

"Oh, be nice Zaeed," Gabby said. "Tali can play if she wants to."

Tali took a step towards the mercenary. "Are you implying I would cheat because I'm a quarian?" she asked, voice quiet enough to grab Zaeed's attention.

Zaeed sneered, unintimidated. "No, I'm implying you'd win all my money and I don't want that to happen."

"You could always bet your cigars instead…" Donnelly suggested, waggling his eyebrows and staring longingly at the cigar box next to Zaeed.

"Piss off."

A new voice caused them all to turn. "Now now, play nice kids." Shepard was standing at the door, arms crossed in feigned disapproval and a barely-suppressed smile on his face. His clothes were rumpled, his whiskers unshaven and face bright red and peeling with a severe sunburn – courtesy of his few hours on Haestrom – but he looked well. Happier than he'd looked in two years.

Gabby and Ken were on their feet in half an instant, stammering out apologies until Shepard silenced them with a flick of his hand. "Look who's finally decided to come out of his hole," Zaeed mused, grinning. "You done with your beauty sleep, Princess?"

"Done enough," Shepard confirmed, grabbing a vacant chair and pulling up to the makeshift table. "What are we playing?"

"Skyllian Five. You know it, Commander?" Ken asked, brow arched.

Shepard nodded. He fixed Tali with a piercing stare. "Sit," he commanded, pointing across the table. "Zaeed's the only one on this ship with any money anyway. He deserves to get it beaten out of him." Zaeed grumbled a few curses but Tali just blushed and, nodding, took her seat across from Shepard as Ken cut them into the game.

Tali examined her cards. She was no more familiar with the odd, two-headed humans printed on each one than Garrus was, but unlike Garrus' scouter (which was essentially a targeting computer), her mask contained a veritable encyclopedia of information. Her visor flooded with a half dozen articles on the particulars and strategy of Skyllian Five poker, which she glanced over as Ken outlined his rules aloud.

"Now I believe," Shepard said, calmly peering through his cards as the game began, his face pleasant and unreadable, "that Zaeed was telling a story."

Zaeed blinked in surprise, his offense forgotten. "Right. Where was I?"

"Hamburger," Garrus supplied.

"Right, right. So there I was, face torn up like a bloody hamburger. Managed to hold myself together until I got back to base, but then I freaked right the hell out. Couldn't see out my right eye. We had a guy, big black fellow, knew some doctoring. He stitched me up and soaked the wound in kerosene. Hurt like a bitch. Put me up in my tent and I cried like a little girl." Gabby snickered at that until Zaeed glared at her, silencing her in a heartbeat. "Looked like the eye would be alright at first," he continued after a moment, "But then it started to stink, gave me a fever like you wouldn't believe. Infection woulda killed me if one of my mates hadn't managed to lift some of the good drugs from Mwembe's people." Tali shuddered, suddenly feeling very sorry for the poor, younger past version of Zaeed, mercenary or not. 'Infection' was not high on her list of favorite words.

"Gotto tell you," Zaeed said, nodding solemnly at the memory, "by the time the doctor took the eye out I was damn ready to see it go. Went to the markets next afternoon, found me a glass one, and got back to work." He grinned proudly.

"I guess they were all out of the right color," Donnelly observed, making Zaeed frown.

"I was lucky they had one at all, you daft bastard. This wasn't the goddamn corner store on the Citadel. You take what you can get!"

Donnelly held out his hands. "Alright, alright. That was one time. What about the second?"

Zaeed 'harumphed'. "Kept that glass eye for…" the merc stared at the ceiling, thinking, "a good ten, fifteen years. Only lost it when my men held me down and my best mate shot me in the face."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Zaeed seemed lost in thought for a moment before an angry grimace crossed his face. "Got it replaced again," he continued with a new edge in his voice, "with one of the old Condyles. Gotten so used to aiming with just the one eye, though, that having two that worked threw me off my game. Went to a backdoor surgeon and had it turned off. Amazing what those psychos can do if you got the money."

"So you have a _blind_ cybernetic eye?" Tali asked, forgetting herself. Zaeed grinned at her incredulous tone.

"Still gives me targeting info, Sweetie. Distance, that sort of thing. But yeah, blind." Tali cocked her head, curious. While the cameras and programs in their masks made mechanical eyes redundant, cybernetic augmentation was common among her people – she herself had two dozen or so wires and monitors implanted under her skin that allowed her suit's computers to monitor and respond to her health, along with a trio of needle ports between the plates on her chin and shoulders for intravenous drug injection. Quarian cybernetics were all masterpieces of subtle engineering, however, not generally for replacing pieces blasted off of a person's face. She wondered how the mercenary had survived the gunshot.

"Wow," Gabby said. "That really _wasn't_ a good story."

"I did warn you," Zaeed reminded her.

"I don't know," Donnelly said, scratching his chin. "I'm still feelin' a bit scandalized here. You're an old man. You're supposed to be all wizened, and _full_ of good stories, and here you are tellin' us about blood and guts. What kind of kindly old man are you?" Zaeed stared dangerously at him, but Gabby burst out laughing.

"You should be telling us to get off your lawn!" she teased.

"And complaining about the younger generations! And telling us how you used to be able to get a hotdog and go to the movies for under twenty five dollars!" The two engineers practically doubled over laughing at their own jokes.

Tali just shook her head and watched them taunt the mercenary until Garrus leaned over towards her, a confused look on his plated face. "Is this really how you play poker?"

–

Two hours later found Shepard, Tali, and Garrus alone at the table, Zaeed and the engineers having retired for the night. Shepard smoked one of Zaeed's cigars with a smug expression on his face while Tali counted through her winnings. True to Zaeed's warnings, once she'd grasped the patterns of the game she'd managed to win almost every hand. She'd never played human card games before, but games of mathematical strategy were commonplace on the Flotilla, and it had taken her little time to figure out how to manipulate the system. Of course, it didn't hurt that she had a killer poker face.

Garrus stared enviously at Tali's pile of credits, omnigel cartridges, heatsinks, and other errata they'd been betting. "I still think that a two headed man should be worth _less_ than a number," he complained. "What good is a second head?" The poor turian had just managed to get more and more confused as the night went on.

"It's a human thing, Garrus," Shepard said, leaning back and putting his feet up on Zaeed's empty chair. "You'll get it eventually."

"Not sure I want to, Commander," Garrus admitted, absently inspecting a card in his fingers. "You call it a game, but I don't think Donnelly agreed." By the end of the night, the engineer had been practically sputtering with angry disbelief at Tali's success, and had only been forcibly dragged away by Gabby after he'd gone broke and tried to bet his shirt.

Shepard laughed. "Well, I guess some of us humans like our games more than others." He put his feet down and sat up, resting his elbows on the table. "Speaking of which, you get anything else from the wiring problem you guys've been working on?" Garrus hesitated, his eyes flickering about. Shepard just frowned. "Don't figure the cameras really matter, Garrus. I'm pretty sure I've got two Cerberus spy cameras right in my head." He blinked slowly, the flutter of his eyes' mechanical shutters obvious in the silence.

"Right," Garrus said. "Well, yes. I managed to lift a bit more from the servers. Though I'm starting to suspect I'm being fed."

Tali's eyes brightened behind her mask. "You guys are hacking Cerberus?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter.

"Damn right we are," Shepard said, grinning. "And you're going to help. We might have to work with them, but it's going to be on our terms. We're going to step up the game, start hitting these bastards back. Tali, I want you to get to work on every scrap of data on this ship. I want to know _everything_."

"I'll get on it," Tali promised, delighted to hear that Shepard wasn't letting down his guard around Cerberus.

"Good. At this point I think the gloves are pretty much off," Shepard said (the idiom's definition flashed on Tali's visor), "so don't bother being subtle about it. Miranda and the Illusive Man know where I stand, and they know where you're going to stand. No reason to dance around it anymore. Be careful though, of course, especially around Miranda. I don't want either of you hurt." Garrus and Tali nodded. "Tomorrow we three are going to go bug-hunting, too. My quarters, down here, anyplace else we think there are too many watching eyes; we're going to clean them out. And if Miranda tries to stop us we'll feed her to the krogan."

Shepard's grin was infectious. Even Garrus' mandibles managed to look cheered by the idea. "You look better, Commander," Garrus observed.

"I _feel _better," Shepard confirmed. "Got two of my favorite tech-heads back on my side, I can walk across the ship without running out of breath, Miranda's giving me the silent treatment, and for the first time I think we might actually get this mission done. I'm doin' alright."

"We will get it done, Shepard," Garrus promised, rising to his feet. "I'll get that data sent to you." He nodded to Tali as he walked away. "Good to have you aboard again, Tali."

Tali started to rise too, feeling newly energized and eager to finish repairing Joker's thruster problem, until she felt Shepard's hand force her back into her chair. She retook her seat, staring curiously at the commander's scarred face. Shepard was silent for a time, just looking back at her as he searched for his words.

"It _is_ good to have you aboard again, Tali," he said eventually, reaching over to embrace her. Tali hugged him back, wrapping her willowy arms around his neck. Her newly-repaired suit let her feel the unnatural warmth of his skin (much warmer than any quarian's) through her gloves.

"I'm sorry I didn't join you on Freedom's Progress," she said into his shoulder.

"Don't be," he grunted.

"I'm sorry you died."

"Don't be sorry for that either," Shepard said, breaking the hug and sitting. "Be sorry for Pressly. I got to come back." Tali's face fell as she remembered the balding XO of the original Normandy. They had not gotten along at first – the man had been yet another bigot in a galaxy that hated quarians – but bit by bit they'd gotten to know each other. He'd never come out and admitted it – at least not to her – but Tali knew that by the time they'd finally beaten Saren he had come to regret his prejudices. He hadn't deserved to die, not after that.

"I miss him too," Shepard said quietly, guessing her mood. "I miss everybody. Kaidan, Liara, Wrex…" He paused, a haunted grimace on his face, "…Ash. But we have to keep going." He shook his head, looking, for a moment, very small. "I have another job for you."

Tali lifted her helmet to meet his blue slate eyes. "Anything you need," she promised.

"You aren't going to like it," Shepard warned. Tali said nothing, and, squashing his cigar out on the ashtray Zaeed had left behind, Shepard continued. "Remember what Zaeed said about getting work done on his cybernetic eye?" He trailed off, looking expectantly at her.

Tali's eyes widened as she realized what he was asking. "No," she said.

"They aren't real eyes anymore," Shepard protested. "I talked to Chakwas, but she said she wouldn't be able to do anything about them. They're machines. I need someone with some technical know-how to shut off the camera functions without just scooping them both out."

"Shepard…" Tali said, blood rushing through her ears, "I'm… I'm not a surgeon, Shepard. I'm an engineer. A _ship_ engineer. A million things could go wrong, I could… I could slip up, and tear open an artery, or blind you for life, or, or-"

"I know you won't let that happen, Tali," Shepard said. "I'll have Chakwas assist you and you'll do great." He fixed her with his most disarming smile. "I trust you, Tali." Tali chewed her lip and tried to ignore the way her face was heating up. She wondered how a human could look so persuasive to her – quarians barely took stock in facial expression at all anymore, and yet somehow the charm that Shepard was so well known for cut through her as easily as anyone else. It was only with considerable effort that she refused.

"Shepard… I can't."

Shepard's grin faltered, but his eyes didn't move. He looked like he was trying to peer right through her helmet, as if to check if she was smiling or not. She stared, embarrassed, at her fidgeting hands. After a moment Shepard leaned back, defeated. "Alright," he said, doing his best to check his disappointment. "I'll find some other way."

"I'm sorry."

"A third thing not to be sorry for," he said, standing up and brushing the cigar ash from his lap.

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Hanar Reproduction**

The hanar are a species of sentient cnidarian analogs from the planet Kahje. As in many aspects of their biology, hanar reproduction stands in stark contrast to many other known sentients'.

Hanar have two sexes, roughly analogous to the males and females of many other animals, but the distinction between the two carries very little biological or cultural weight. 'Male' hanar, often the smaller of the two genders, can be distinguished from 'females' by a fringe of feathery appendages normally kept retracted within the fore tentacles, but otherwise the genders are outwardly identical. Indeed, hanar larval stages are hermaphrodites and adults can change genders under certain conditions – some hanar individuals move from male to female and back again several times in their lives. Sex change is believed to be driven mostly by body fat – the fatter parent in any given pair will usually develop to fill the male role, growing the trademarked feathery projections and male mating pigments over the course of a few weeks. Some hanar couples will intentionally coordinate dieting in order to trade the rather more demanding task of malehood in alternating spawns. Because of their flexible genders, hanar place very little social significance on gender –to them, it is a temporary label at most.

Hanar are, in a sense, monogamous. Mating is considered a highly intimate act, only ever undertaken between soul-mates. With few exceptions, hanar pairs stay together their entire lives after a marriage-like bioluminescent courtship ceremony. Unlike many other sentients with marriage customs, however, hanar do not marry exclusively – most hanar fully expect to meet four or five soul-mates in their lives, and maintain multiple close relationships without jealousy or retribution. Oftentimes hanar will live in small groups with each member 'married' to all of the others, and pairing off in different combinations for each spawning.

Though the asari are well-known for their promiscuity, the hanar are arguably the most unabashedly sexual of known sentients. True spawning is rare but recreational sex is extremely common. All the same, sex implies a strong emotional bond that is rarely violated. The hanars' bioluminescent communication gives them an uncommon physical empathy, though this does not apply to alien species. Images of hanar sexually involved with asari or other aliens – common throughout the galaxy – tend to be looked upon with some revulsion by most hanar.

Most hanar spawn five to ten times in their lives. During Kahje's spring, hanar pairs migrate en masse to the large coral reefs ringing many of the planet's islands. In this shallow, sunny water, plankton is plentiful and large predators scarce. Female hanar lay 5000 or so unfertilized eggs, carefully affixing them to rocks, coral, or, in some hanar cultures, finely crafted ceramic homes (some of the larger spawning areas on Kahje are littered with untold millions of accumulated egg houses, many encrusted in valuable coral ivory or volcanic glass). Males fertilize the eggs with clouds of sperm, after which point the female departs (in many regions female hanar form packs that collectively defend the breeding areas from massive wading animals like the cephalopod analog Ongens). The male parent rests atop his clutch, and will remain with them for several weeks without eating, living off of accumulated fat stores. Using their feathered tentacles, males constantly brush the eggs, keeping them clean and well oxygenated, all while fending off egg-eating predators or other hanar pairs looking for ideal spawning spots. While tending the eggs, the male will flash constantly, 'talking' to the embryos within with elaborate bioluminescent flickers. Even at this stage, the translucent embryos are photosensitive and, in fact, their fathers' flashes trigger a maturation of their own chromatophores – biologists believe this leads to the 'fine tuning' of the embryos' bioluminescence, ultimately shaping their wavelength and intensity patterns to match their fathers'.

Hanar eggs hatch after approximately six weeks, at which point the starving father abandons them and retreats into the deep ocean to feed. Newly hatched hanar exist as planktonic larvae less than a centimeter long, which can last on the energy in their yolk sacs for 4-10 days while they search for a hard surface. Upon finding a suitable landing site, the larvae adhere and entering a polyp stage. Hanar polyps – which resemble Earth's sea anemones in many respects – are filter feeders that capture oceanic snow and microscopic organisms in the reefs. During this life stage, polyps grow steadily larger, accumulating fat and protein stores deep within their stalks. These stalks ultimately form the raw material for the final hanar metamorphosis, the free-swimming nymph stage, which begins after the hanar have grown to about a kilogram in weight. Nymphs closely resemble adult hanar, albeit with short, stocky tentacles and undeveloped bell ridges. This stage represents the first appearance of complicated nervous activity in hanar. Nymphs remain in the reefs for a few weeks, preying on small animals and one another, before ultimately outgrowing their nurseries and making for open water.

Like many aquatic animals on Earth, hanar are R-strategists and endure extremely high infant mortality. Out of a given clutch of several thousand eggs, typically fewer than two or three – and oftentimes none at all – will survive to the nymph stage. As a culture, hanar view these losses as regrettable but expected – hanar are not considered truly 'alive' until they leave the reefs, which are seen as a somewhat supernatural pre-life realm. The thousands of young hanar claimed by predators or starvation are, to hanar beliefs, never truly alive and thus never truly dead – their losses are honored but not mourned. With luck, however, some of the nymphs will find their way into the open ocean to rejoin the adult hanar cities.

Genetic analysis proves that young hanar show a remarkable capacity for seeking out their biological parents, perhaps using their unique bioluminescent 'fingerprints', but many will ultimately approach and be accepted by other adults of no relation. Regardless, hanar view parents in enormously high regard. Rather similar to their cultural respect for the protheans whom they believe granted them sentience, hanar are expected to honor and obey the parents who gave them life. However, because matching of hanar to their _biological_ parents is spotty at best, hanar place no stock in true lineage. Paternity and maternity are a non-issue – for the hanar, parents are the ones who raise and teach you.

–

* * *

**A/N: **Whew, been a while. Sorry for the slow update. I've had an awful busy few weeks, and chapter 11 is a nightmare. I note that my chapters are getting pretty long these days. Not sure why that is, but I am going to make a concerted effort to shorten them in the future.

In the interest of full disclosure, I _may_ have ripped off the hanar porn thing from eyyowlf. *shifty eyes* Sorry eyyo, I just had to.

And why come FFN has deleted all the little dashes I use to delineate scenes? What gives?

Anyway, stay tuned! Chapter 11's going to be quite a priiize.


	11. Chapter 11, Horizon, Jacob Taylor

**Horizon – Jacob Taylor**

* * *

–

An obnoxious alarm pulse blared throughout the ship, just loud enough that it could not be ignored.

The _Normandy_ was at full burn - Jacob could feel the adjustment thrusters shaking him down to his bones as he made his way to his locker on the crew deck. Five minutes ago he'd been comfortably asleep in his shared bunk when the alarm had roused him, but unlike many of the others scrambling from their beds, he was sure-footed and calm as he pulled on his armor. His time with the Alliance had been good for something, at least.

Jacob was a relative rarity among human soldiers in generally not wearing a hardsuit – he'd become a master of biotic barriers if ever there was one and he preferred speed to strength any day – but sometimes a skin-tight jumpsuit just didn't cut it. His vest of ceramic plates and Leibniz packets slipped on easily over his usual wear, and he adjusted the straps with rote efficiency before snapping on a pair of padded gauntlets. His helmet he tucked beneath one arm and, shutting the locker, he headed to do a final check of the crew quarters.

Above him, the intercom system was alive with voices, commands and reports being tossed back and forth. "EDI's finished with the approach vectors to Horizon, Commander," Joker's voice boomed. "Fastest course will put us right on top of the colony as we enter the system."

"And right on top of whatever's happening," Shepard responded. "How much longer for a rear approach?"

"…eight minutes, EDI says," Joker said as Jacob finished checking the crew decks and headed for the elevator. "We can take the long way around the planet."

"Do that. Can't assume the collectors can't see through the stealth systems. Mordin, are your countermeasures ready?"

Mordin's voice appeared. "Shortly, Shepard. Running final tests on newly-assembled modules. Miss Zorah will distribute to human crewmembers in hangar after verifying adequate power supply." As he stepped into the elevator, Jacob frowned at the power indicator on his vest. Just about fully charged. Hopefully that was enough for whatever Mordin intended. He punched the button for the hangar access.

Shepard's voice rang out from the elevator's speakers. "Jacob, you suited up?"

"Sir yes sir," Jacob said, snapping a salute (and grimacing as he realized Shepard couldn't see him). "Locked and ready to go."

"Good. Get to the hangar and make sure Zaeed and Grunt can say the same. They're taking some heavier guns this time, make sure they're both in working order."

"You got it."

–

The hubbub in the upper decks was nothing compared to the hangar where most of the ground team was preparing. The sound of the Kodiak's initialization runtimes and the whine of the cargo crane thundered off of the walls as Jacob exited the elevator. The dozen or so Cerberus crewmen bustling about to fill Shepard's last minute orders muttered nervously amongst themselves. Many of them were from the civilian sector. They were all masters at their field, of course, but many had never seen real battle before, and Jacob could see the fear in their faces as he headed for the shuttle. They gave a wide berth to Shepard's new pet krogan, who paced furiously like a caged lion, snarling at any who strayed too close. Perhaps the only one apparently unaffected by the coming fight was Zaeed, who'd set up what looked to be enough guns for a small militia on the workbenches next to the shuttle and was servicing each weapon with a calm reverence that seemed to pierce the storm around him. Jacob frowned, his distrust for the mercenary surging anew. He was all for confidence, but the expression on Zaeed's scarred face looked entirely too serene considering a whole colony was at stake.

He was distracted by a resounding crash as something (something heavy and expensive, by the sound of it) slipped out of nervous hands and broke upon the floor. The first accusations of blame were not halfway out of the accusers' mouths before Jacob cut them off, "this is not the time, people!" he shouted above the din, not bothering to see what was broken. "We are on a mission here. Do your jobs and we'll all get through it!"

Jacob calmly set his helmet on the bench next to Zaeed's arsenal and set to checking his own two guns. The grizzled mercenary paid him no mind, his hands hard at work adjusting the fuel lines to the heavy flamethrower – one of Shepard's newest requisitions – strapped onto his back. The weapon was brand new – never before used – and yet it filled the air with a foul, smoky smell. Or maybe that was Zaeed, Jacob wasn't sure.

"Think it's best to be smoking while handling inflammable fuel?" he asked, not looking up from his shotgun.

Zaeed rolled his eyes and puffed arrogantly on the stub of his cigar. "Firestorm 603," he said, hefting the flamethrower's ignition system with a misty gleam in his eyes, "Damn good gun. Heavier than the 451 but a hell of a killing machine. Can turn a city block into a goddamn inferno in a couple seconds." He fixed Jacob with a two-toned stare. "I've done my homework, Kid. Find someone else to mother."

"Yeah, well. At least you're good for something."

"That's funny," Zaeed said, rolling his eyes. "You condescending to me like that. Shepard I get, but you're Cerberus' bitch, so if you got a bug up your ass about me, Taylor, I recommend you get it out in the open. We gonna have problems?"

Jacob met the man's threatening stare without flinching. He didn't have to justify himself. He was here to help people. Zaeed was here for money. They were _not_ the same. "So long as you do your job, we'll get along fine," he said, stepping forward to come face to face with the mercenary. "For now. But yeah, we have problems. I don't trust anyone who does what you do. I'll have my eye on you."

Zaeed just smirked, casually flicking cigar ash onto the floor. "Consider me warned."

–

The rest of the loading went well and, by the time the ship dropped out of FTL in the Iera system, the ground team was ready to go. Even after putting up with Zaeed (and worse, having to help strap a flamethrower onto an excited but uncooperative krogan), Jacob found his spirits high. After he'd picked up his anti-seeker swarm countermeasure (a thick, unattractive box that plugged into his armor suit's power unit) he joined the rest of the team in the shuttle.

Shepard's ragtag army was on its way to what might be its first real test against the collectors – against aliens of unknown strength and technology – and yet Jacob couldn't help but feel hopeful. He stared across the row of faces – human, salarian, turian, krogan, and quarian – and saw every emotion, from fear to bloodlust, and yet for the first time he felt like he was seeing the sparks of a real team. On the ship Zaeed was a dick and Shepard and Miranda were perpetually about two steps from killing one another in their sleep, but in the looming shadow of the oncoming battle personal grudges were forgotten and people began to work _together_. They all had their reasons for being there and there was unspoken agreement that these reasons were more important than petty grudges.

They might all die, of course. Mordin's countermeasures might (as he had plainly announced) not be fully functional, or the new _Normandy_ might turn out to be no more resilient than its predecessor. There were a million ways for it to end, and all but a handful were very, very bad. But they would die a team.

More or less.

–

"Didn't realize you were coming, Mordin."

Above the sounds of the Kodiak's thrusters, the salarian looked up from his weapon to stare at Jacob. "Yes, yes," he said, gesturing to a belt of test tube cartridge holders around his chest, "Samples. May need to bid hasty retreat. May not have time for proper collection. Need to be on site, see collector technology and activity in the field." He smiled warmly at Jacob. "Appreciate concern," he cocked his submachine gun with elaborate flair, "but unnecessary. Not soldier, but can handle self."

Jacob laughed. "Didn't mean to imply otherwise."

"Of course. Besides, tactically wise inclusion. Need non-humans on ground team in case humans get collected in first five minutes." He stared at Jacob, who swallowed nervously.

Jacob was spared the chance to ask the salarian if he was joking or not by Shepard, who banged against the shuttle wall to grab the group's attention. "Listen up, team," he said, gesturing around at the eight of them, crammed like sardines into the shuttle. "I'm sorry we didn't have time for a proper briefing, but we'll have to make do." He pointed to Miranda, who activated her omnitool with a few swift button presses. A holographic city map bloomed from her wrist, coming to float lazily in the middle of the shuttle. "We have scans of the four major settlements on Horizon," Shepard began. "The _Normandy_'s long-range sensors confirm a massive energy source here, on the outskirts of New Discovery." He pointed to a glowing yellow marker just south of the miniature town.

"_That's_ a ship?" Tali asked incredulously, scooting forward on her seat. "It almost looks like a space station. I've never seen a ship with that kind of energy output, and certainly not in atmosphere."

Joker was the first to reply, his voice thrumming from the speakers overhead. "Yeah you have. You watched me waste one two years ago. Ask Shepard – he almost got a _real_ close look." Jacob looked at the commander's face and was unsurprised to see it drawn in a grim frown – Joker's levity aside, Sovereign had been no laughing matter, and the comparison did nothing to improve their chances.

Miranda broke the uncomfortable silence. "Personal incredulity aside, this is what the data indicate."

"At least we know it's the collectors, then," Garrus offered helpfully, one arm still struggling to get the human-sized harness latched down over his deep armor shell. "No one else could build a ship like that." No one looked overmuch cheered by this either.

"It doesn't matter," Shepard insisted.

"Regardless of what technology they have," Miranda said, taking over the briefing, "the surveillance footage from Freedom's Progress suggests that the collectors retrieve the colonists by hand, down on the ground. There are more than three hundred thousand people living in New Discovery. Even with an army of collectors, it will take time to load them. Time enough, maybe, for us to do something to stop it."

"That's what we're counting on," Shepard said, grinning. "Time to see just how many bullets it takes to make them think twice. Once we're on the ground we'll split into two groups. Miranda, Tali, Garrus, and I will sneak down the main road to the Alliance headquarters in the center of town." A red marker appeared on the map and traced its way down a long, straight road. "With luck there will be holdouts there. Maybe even Kaidan." Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob saw Garrus and Tali's twin looks of surprise. Shepard tossed them a nod and continued.

"Jacob will be leading the rest of you in a distraction team," a blue marker appeared on the town's perimeter. "My team's going to be right through the highest population areas. Good chance the collectors will be thick. We're going to need you to circle northwest around the outskirts and draw as much fire as possible, lighten things for us while keeping in range to respond if things go south." He looked to Jacob. "Think you can do that?"

The prospect of commanding Grunt and Zaeed did not appeal, but Jacob was a soldier. He saluted. "Yes sir, Commander."

"Do you really think Jacob can handle the krogan?" Miranda asked.

Shepard sighed wearily. "I think Jacob can handle _Grunt_ fine, Miranda. They both know their jobs. And besides, Zaeed and Mordin will be with them. Right guys?"

"Hell yeah, Shepard," Zaeed said, hefting the nozzle of his new toy. "Taylor's got his eye on us all. Me and Grunt'll be walkin' on our tippy toes." He cast a taunting look in Jacob's direction. Behind him, Grunt sniggered.

"Indeed," Mordin agreed, oblivious to the malice in the mercenary's voice. "Will assist Mr. Taylor as needed."

Shepard grinned widely. "See Miranda?" he said, "The merc and the insane doctor agree we're fine. We can do this."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I'm so relieved."

–

"You sure you'll be alright?"

Jacob turned to look at Miranda. Even in Horizon's insufferable humidity, she was as beautiful and flawless as ever. She even made Mordin's unattractive countermeasure – which hung like a pendant from her neck – look fashionable. But it was the twinge of not-quite-hidden anxiety on her face that made Jacob grin. Were it anyone else he might be offended by their lack of confidence. But Miranda, as much as she might dress it up as a tactical concern, was worried about him. He'd always had to work to get any kind of emotion out of her. Seeing her unease reminded him of what he'd always tried to remind everyone else – Miranda was still human.

"I'll be _fine_ Miranda," he said, briefly entertaining the idea of embracing her before casting it away. He followed her gaze to where Zaeed and Grunt were testing their flamethrowers out on a nearby tree while Mordin watched, fascinated. "Promise. I've handled guys like these before."

"Hey Lizard!" Zaeed was shouting to the krogan, "I challenge you to a fire-pissing contest! Bet you a thousand credits I can burn more bugs than you."

Grunt's enormous blue eyes narrowed angrily and his hands wrapped around the flamethrower with renewed vigor. "I am pure krogan. My victory in this 'fire-pissing contest' will be _glorious_, human, and I will take your credits as a trophy."

"Not sure whether you should be proud or ashamed of that…" Miranda said, shaking her head in disapproval at the filthy hand gestures Zaeed was making. Behind her, Shepard, Tali, and Garrus had started down the main road. With a final shrug, Miranda turned to follow them, pistol drawn.

"Be careful, Miranda," Jacob said.

She tossed him an arrogant wink over her shoulder. "I'm _always_ careful, Jacob."

Jacob chuckled before turning to his group. A merc, a krogan, and an eccentric, amoral crackpot. He had his work cut out for him. "Alright let's shape up!" he shouted. "Conserve your fuel, you two! Let's move!"

* * *

_15 years previously…_

–

Summers on Kofi's Moon were _hot_. For a few months every year, the planet tilted so sharply towards its sun that everything baked. Animals migrated away, rivers dried, businesses shut down to avoid the unending sunlight. The thirty thousand humans who made Kofi's Moon their home agreed down to the man that it was the worst time of the year.

There were, however, three things to redeem summer. The first was the plants. Those that didn't simply retreat into the ground changed pigments, flooding their leaves with a beautiful blue color to reflect the brunt of the sun's radiation. The vast blue-green grasslands had become the colony's signature image, featured prominently on all of Transelm's marketing. Even those locals that had lived in the colony for twenty years still found the massive yearly transformation beautiful.

Second, it turned out the plants' summer pigments were absolutely lucrative as components of low-cost solar power and heat bleeding systems. It had taken some years to discover their value, but once it had been revealed Transelm had jumped on it, and the colony's GDP had been growing by leaps and bounds ever since as more and more farms were started to extract the valuable chemicals. Now thousands of tons of grass were processed every summer, attracting legions of transport ships and harvesters and laborers from all corners of the galaxy, eager to get a piece of the profits. The capital's population tripled for the summer months, bringing outside goods and culture that were otherwise unobtainable.

And finally, and most importantly, school was cancelled.

It was for this third reason that sixteen-year-old Jacob Taylor and his friends could be found spending their rare free hours in the shade of the forests just north of town, hiding from being conscripted back into the endless harvest. The three boys' bodies ached with weeks of backbreaking labor, to the point where any activity beyond staring at the sky and talking seemed like an intractable effort.

"I'm so tired," Jacob said, watching the little flecks of blue-white sky peeking through the canopy, "I could lay here until _next_ year's harvest."

Next to him, his best friend Thames ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "_I'm_ so tired I could sleep through the next batarian raid. Ugly bastards wouldn't even have to struggle to load me up with the other slaves, so long as they had a pillow." He held a hand up to the back of his neck, miming the tracking-device gun the batarians used to implant their slaves. "Pop. Anything to avoid seeing another bale of grass."

Red's voice came from above, where he was stretched out on a tree branch, his lanky limbs hanging. "I'm so tired I don't even care that someone is coming to drag us back to work."

Jacob and Thames sat up in a flash. "What?" Thames demanded. "They found us already?" Jacob just groaned, cradling a (sore) head in a (sore) hand.

Red gazed lazily down at them. "Yeaaaahhh… Someone's heading for us, saw him coming up the path ten minutes ago. Be here any minute. Nobody we know, though." He sniffed, unconcerned. "Looks like a tourist, maybe."

The boys relaxed. "So it's for Taylor, then," Thames said. "Wonder who his dad beat up _this_ time."

Jacob tensed. "Shut up about my father," he growled. Jacob was a big boy, his youthful frame already heavy with muscle, but it was the blue corona that inadvertently plumed from his body that caused Thames to blanch.

"Just kiddin, Jacob," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You know I love your dad. Anybody who can wreck Stevens up like that is a damn hero in my book."

"Yeah, fine," Jacob muttered, letting it drop. The dark energy rippled away as quickly as it had come. He squinted and stared down the path, shielding his eyes under one hand. In the distance, he could just see the approaching stranger. The glare made it hard, but already Jacob could make out the man's cream-colored suit and hat and his blissfully confident stride as he made his way up the forest path. He looked out of place in the grit-stained colony, his clothes cleanly pressed; his designer shoes polished and somehow free of mud and grass. If he was winded at all by the time he reached the boys, he didn't show it.

"Afternoon, boys," the man said, removing his hat and giving an elaborate bow. He grinned, showing straight, white teeth under his laboriously-coifed blonde moustache.

"Afternoon, sir," Jacob said politely, nodding his head. "You must be here for the harvest. Something we can do for you?"

"Yes sir, I believe there is," the man said, replacing his hat. "I never met you before, son, but I _know_ you're Taylor's boy." He extended a hand to shake. "Captain Justinian Andsworth, at your service." Jacob stood and shook the man's hand. He tried to hide his surprise when he realized the limb was cybernetic, but Justinian caught it and grinned knowingly. "Aww, don't worry about the metalworks, son," he said, lifting his metal fingers up to his face and flexing them experimentally – the servos in each joint shifted quietly, and Jacob was astonished to notice the hand had only four fingers, and had apparently been designed that way.

Jacob kept his face neutral, but inside his mind was moving a mile a minute. Justinian looked for all the world like a rich tourist, a soft man, a city-dweller from Elysium or the Citadel, and yet underneath his fastidious grooming and affable smile was something else, something darker. His stance was too smooth, too calculated. His eyes held an edge – they were the eyes of an ambush predator, the eyes of a hard man who'd seen the worst the galaxy had to offer, and they moved constantly, taking everything in. Missing nothing. Jacob felt alarm bells going off in his head.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Andsworth?" he asked, burying his suspicions.

"I have a… gentlemanly offer for you, son," Justinian said. He turned to Thames and Red. "Would you boys mind if I talked to Jacob alone for a moment?" he asked.

Thames frowned and pointed at the bulge in Justinian's coat pocket. "You've got a gun. Heavy risk, leaving you alone out in the forest. How stupid do you think we are?"

Justinian smiled disarmingly. "Heavy risk yes," he agreed, pulling a long-barreled pistol out of his coat and holding it out to Jacob, "but I assure you, Mr. Taylor, the prize is well worth it."

Jacob hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the gun. In a flash, he'd checked the ammo chamber, primed it, and flipped the safety off. The weapon felt as natural in his hands as any tool – Jacob's father owned quite the collection and Jacob had been firing guns since he was eight. The gun gave the quiet whine of fine craftsmanship as he leveled it at Justinian, whose face flickered in surprise for just a moment before returning to an impressed grin. "It's alright, guys," Jacob said over his shoulder. "I can handle him."

Justinian beamed. "Thank you, son. Let's take a walk." Without waiting for an answer, he headed off in a random direction, the same spring in his step from before, striding between the blue-tinged trees like he was on a Sunday stroll. Jacob cast a last slow look at his friends and they stared back, their intentions obvious in their eyes. They would follow from a distance. Jacob gave a nod and, jamming the gun into his pocket, headed after Justinian.

–

"So talk," Jacob said as they picked their way through the forest.

Justinian grinned (he seemed to be always grinning, when it came down to it). "Like I said before, son," he said, "I never met you but I knew you were the Taylor boy the moment I saw you. You're a special sort. Obvious if you know what you're looking for. Wish there were more like you, but there aren't."

Jacob had a guess where this was going. He'd been propositioned by so called 'captains' before, looking for cheap labor to help them unload their harvests at any of the dozens of planets that the colony sold to. "You a shipper?" he asked. "Looking for hands on your ship? Because I'm not interested."

"No sir, I'm no shipper," Justinian said, shaking his head. "Messy, crazy business, shipping. I do captain a ship, however. The _Anaximander_. Beautiful machine, if I do say so myself. Mighta seen her land this morning." Jacob said nothing, and Justinian continued. "Alliance knows how to fit 'em," he added, winking at Jacob.

"_You're_ Alliance?" Jacob asked, incredulous. "You're kidding."

"And why not?" Justinian asked, feigning offense. He gestured down to his suit. "Alliance men can't look good from time to time?" He clicked his tongue. "But no, son, not officially Alliance. Alliance of a sort. You ever hear of the Corsair program?" Jacob shook his head. "Well, whatever men on the frontier say about them, the Alliance _does_ have a brain and it _does_ have a conscience. There are men in it that know how the world works, know that the rules don't always apply. Know that sometimes the right thing and the political thing aren't the _same_ thing. Men like you, like me. Let's just say I occasionally 'accidentally' intercept Alliance transmissions describing certain situations in need of a good Samaritan. I happen to _find_ that Samaritan, and it might just turn into one hell of a tax exemption."

Jacob frowned. "So you're a mercenary," he said, disappointed. "The Alliance pays you to kill people quietly."

"Not at all, son," Justinian said, looking genuinely affronted. "I am a doer of good deeds, a conscience with a ship and a crew and a whole lot of guns. A champion of justice without all the red tape."

"And you want me to help."

"Well obviously not _now_, son. Could never take a sixteen-year-old boy out into the void to save the galaxy. You got to finish your studies. But I keep an eye out for talent, and I've heard great things about you. A man like you could do great things up in the void." Justinian eyed Jacob expectantly.

Jacob truly thought about it for a moment. There weren't many kids his age on Kofi's Moon, and most of those that were wanted to leave. It was a backwater planet, pure and simple, and staying there meant inheriting their parents' lives. Backbreaking work on a farm, struggling to keep your family fed, eight extranet terminals on the whole planet, and a whole lot of nothing else. Up in space there was fighting and robots and sex with blue aliens. On Kofi's Moon? Grass. Jacob himself had never seen fit to complain with his lot in life – he was happy enough with a simple existence – but he admitted it was hard not to wonder about what lay beyond the sky.

Still, his answer was clear. He had spent his whole childhood hearing his father warn about the dangers of the Alliance, of the Company, of anyone else who took away a man's freedom without understanding the situation first. Men like Justinian were dangerous, pure and simple, and even more so to Jacob. He smiled at Justinian and offered a hand to shake. "Thanks but no thanks, Captain," he said, "but I have plenty to do here with my father."

Justinian frowned, clearly disappointed. "Yes, your father," he said.

"My father is a great man," Jacob insisted, eyes narrowing at Justinian's doubtful tone.

"He is at that," Justinian agreed, "but he is also an angry man. I would be asking him this same question if I truly believed he could ever willingly work for anyone but himself. But I don't, son. Do you? He's goin' off the rails, Jacob." Jacob frowned, looking at his toes. He knew Justinian was right. A few years ago, when Kofi's Moon's value was first fully realized, Transelm had muscled Ronald Taylor out of his self-appointed position as town sheriff and replaced him with corporate security forces, and the man had held a grudge ever since. He was respected, by and large, among the colonists for being a champion of their rights and freedoms, aside from his endless array of skills, but his temper was feared far and wide. It was a common argument whether Ronald Taylor was the greatest mean man or the meanest great man on Kofi's Moon. Jacob was starting to wonder if either was true after the tenth or twelfth time his father had gotten drunk and his usual rants against The Company had led to fistfights.

"He is going through a tough time," Jacob said resolutely. "That's all. He's a good father who has given me everything."

"I believe it, Jacob, but there will come a time when you will want to leave this moon. You are a gifted man, above and beyond what he is. Men like you belong up there," he said, gesturing up at the sky with his four-fingered metal hand, "where you can do the most good. Your father is too… stuck in the old ways. Too scared of civilization. The frontier is shrinking and he can't handle it. Hell, if he wasn't so damn frightened of your biotic potential he'd have enrolled you in a proper school, given you a proper future anywhere you wanted."

Jacob frowned, pulling out the gun and training it on Justinian. "We're done here," he said.

Justinian's affable smile disappeared as he faced Jacob. "Your biotics are not an illness," he said. "And your father's attempts to hide them do not make them go away. You have a gift, and an obligation to repay that gift to the galaxy. If your father can't see that-"

The gun primed, its whine filling the air. "I said we're done."

Justinian fell silent. "Very well, son. I come by here every year at harvest. When you change your mind, you know how to find me."

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

Jacob had set foot on many human colonies in his work with the Alliance and, later, Cerberus. An outsider might see them all as one and the same, and indeed, they always bore certain hallmarks – usually low income, usually no aliens, usually some big company's logo plastered over every surface. But that was misleading. The universe had gotten so much bigger in the last half century that it was easy to pigeon-hole whole planets as 'human colonies' and go no further, but Jacob knew every one had its own identity, its own little quirks. Kofi's Moon's blue grasslands, Eden Prime's spectacular red skies and glowing vistas, Freedom's Progress' bioluminescent storms, they all looked great on the colonial brochure, but it was the community that gave these places their unique spirit. This was simple colonial life. This was home. Jacob kept his head on the swivel, ostensibly to keep an eye out for more of their insectoid foes, and yet he could not help but find himself taking in the sights. The air was fresh, the day deceptively clear and cheery. Though there wasn't a soul to be seen, everywhere he looked Jacob could see evidence of a tight-knit community of neighbors and friends.

And yet Jacob had never been somewhere so alien. As big as the universe had become, the collectors were from somewhere still beyond its edge, truly foreign in a way none of the other aliens Jacob had met matched. Their lidless eyes locked in place – when the light hit them just right, the glisten of hidden cybernetics was apparent in their depths. The great insects were utterly silent, almost ghostly in their motions. Never a wasted muscle twitch. No sign whatsoever of communication or order. Practically machines.

Above them, an undulating ceiling of seeker swarms pulsed about. At first glance they looked just like swarming insects, but with care Jacob could pick out an unnatural symmetry of movement emerging from the apparent chaos, like the swarms were being pushed by a computer. It was unsettling. "Mordin," Jacob asked, fingering the countermeasure box around his bicep, "You sure these things are going to work?"

"As explained earlier, most certainly not sure," the salarian said, peering unconcerned up at the swarms. "Rely upon several key assumptions about swarm behavior. Corroborated by tests on captured units, but impossible to apply model to field without direct observation. Very poor science." He clucked his tongue, disappointed. "Device produces counter pulses to confuse swarms' active electrosensory systems. Apparently sole mechanism by which they find humans, but possibility of backup mechanism. Would recommend caution."

"Great," Jacob said, nervously checking his power pack.

The squad moved quietly through the remains of a now-vacant shipyard. In the distance, the afternoon sun glinted off of carapaced forms and they slowed, keeping out of sight until they took cover behind a maze of abandoned construction equipment not ten meters from where the collectors worked. The insects – dozens of them – were gathering up the paralyzed colonists and packaging them in massive, pupa-like pods, which were laid out in orderly lines. The only sound came from the otherworldly hum of a great, floating machine with armor so black it seemed to suck up all the daylight, which stacked the pods into hexagonal bundles before carrying them away in its massive metal claws.

"Good thirty, thirty-five of 'em up there," Zaeed whispered into his communicator, his usually implacable voice betraying his unease. "Why aren't they firing?" Jacob just shook his head, at a loss, as he watched the creatures work.

From his position behind a nearby stack of steel beams, Mordin tapped at his face. "Unexpected. Appear unaware of our presence. Perhaps blind." Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and stepped into plain sight, gun held out in front of him.

"Get back into cover, Mordin!" Jacob hissed. The salarian ignored him, taking a few steps nearer to the collectors. None of the insects budged, just continued their relentless packaging, even when Mordin waved an omni-tool directly in front of one's face.

"Point eyes primitive, but pupillary responses intact. Suggests some light sensitivity – not blindness," Mordin said calmly, walking in a tight circle to examine the preoccupied insect from every angle. "Extensive cybernetic augmentation obvious. Behavior, physiology not dissimilar to Citadel keepers. Connection?"

"Get back, Mordin!" Jacob repeated, "this isn't a science fair!" This time the salarian obeyed, striding back to his cover. Jacob thought for a moment. For whatever reason, the collectors were giving them a break, but he had little doubt that would end as soon as they opened fire. They had to take advantage while they could. "Zaeed, Grunt, take position at the corners of that building," he said, gesturing up ahead. Grunt nodded, gleefully stroking the barrel of his flamethrower until Jacob stopped him with an outstretched hand "No throwers. Too many colonists around. Assault rifles only." The krogan grumbled but acquiesced before plodding off to his position. "Mordin, keep out of fire. Let us handle it. We're going to hit them all simultaneously. Be ready to take cover."

"Understood," Mordin said.

Jacob gripped his shotgun and crept forward to take point, ultimately crouching in the shadow of an earthmover. In front of him, the collectors continued their quiet work. They would look almost entirely dead to the world if not for their wicked chelicerae, which flickered about as if they were chewing something. And, of course, the fact that they were abducting entire cities with casual ease. Jacob checked his flanks – Grunt and Zaeed were in position. Inwardly, he grumbled at the idea that his only protection was a ruthless mercenary and a clearly unstable krogan, but he trusted Shepard's judgment.

"Go."

Thunder sounded as Jacob fired his shotgun into the nearest collector. The insect's head and torso exploded spectacularly, spattering the frozen human it had been manhandling with black ooze and flecks of shattered chitin. Its remains thudded heavily to the ground without so much as a shudder. Grunt and Zaeed's rifles cracked as they advanced on the other collectors, mowing them down with flawless precision. Jacob didn't bother stopping to wonder what the hell was going on, and hopped over the half-open pod before him, took aim at the next bug, and fired.

It was hardly twenty seconds before they had killed every single collector in sight. None of them had raised a claw in self-defense, or even given any signal they recognized the threat all. Jacob stood, confused, among the gore.

"Cybernetics clearly interfaced heavily with brain," Mordin observed, stooped over one carcass. His hands cut with mechanical care as he took dozens of tissue samples, clicking the vials into a black cartridge on his belt. "Perhaps even receiver for external control device. Collectors given order, not capable of violating, even to protect life."

Jacob ignored him, staring at one of the frozen men. A farmer, by the looks of him, maybe fifty or sixty, with skin like well-worn leather. And completely frozen in place. Jacob felt for him – just a simple man, trying to make a life for his family on the frontier until he was caught up in something bigger than him. This was a man like his father had once been. Like he had almost been. A man who deserved a little peace. It wasn't fair, the way the universe worked sometimes. "Can we help the colonists?" he asked, turning to face the professor.

Mordin's enormous eyes flickered to one of the pods. "Perhaps," he said, running a few perfunctory scans across its surface. "Life signs atypically low but detectable. Captives likely forced into a coma state to reduce life support requirements, simplify transport."

"Is the paralysis reversible?"

"Impossible to say now. Volunteers on Normandy recovered in four to eight hours with no severe side effects, but colonists may have been stung multiple times. May be unable to clear paralyzing agent. Impossible to know without experimentation."

Jacob frowned. Some part of him knew they had to keep moving, but a greater part could not leave innocents in this state. It did not take him long to come to a decision. Shepard would understand. He clapped a hand on the paralyzed man's shoulder – he did not know if the man could hear him, but he wanted him to know help had arrived. "Fine," he said at last, "Open the pods and we'll lock the colonists in one of these buildings. Is there any way to use your countermeasure to make sure they aren't found again?"

"Not unless you or Mr. Massani wants to give up yours," Mordin said, a frustrated look on his slender face. (Jacob could not help but fleetingly consider sacrificing Zaeed) "Cannot conjure calibrated pulse generator from nothing. With proper cover, however, risk probably small. Swarms appear to recognize human nervous impulses. Comatose humans unlikely to attract much attention." Jacob nodded, stooping to loop his arms beneath the colonist's armpits. He was struck by how stiff the man felt, like he'd been turned to stone.

"Shepard said to be a distraction," Grunt complained as he yanked one of the pods open and tossed its peel-like door across the street. The smell of the pod's putrid, sap-like blood filled the air. "So far they haven't even _noticed_ us."

"We'll get to it. We help the colonists first," Jacob ordered, lifting the man off of his feet and dragging him towards the nearest prefab. Shepard's team hadn't met any resistance yet. They had time.

–

Seventy-eight colonists within a block of them, every one stiff as a board. Jacob panted with exertion as he pulled the seventy-eighth – a young woman – into place and stacked her with the others. They were piled up like cordwood – or like corpses – but they'd live. He hoped.

His radio crackled. "Jacob, you there?" It was Shepard.

"Here Commander. What can we do for you?"

"Nothing that you haven't already, I think," Shepard said, sounding winded but excited. "Garrus just sent word. Looks like you have incoming."

"Collectors?" Jacob asked, deciding not to mention the fact that the collectors hadn't seemed to notice them at all yet.

"And husks," Shepard said, and Jacob felt his stomach descend past his knees. "Not the colonists," Shepard continued. "Too dry. But different from the ones on Eden Prime." For several seconds, Jacob said nothing, his mind full of haunting images of grasping hands. "You can handle it?" Shepard asked.

"Roger that, Commander," Jacob managed.

"Keep your head. You'll be fine," Shepard said, and the radio quieted.

By the time Jacob had pulled his team to the second-story balcony of an adjacent apartment, the moaning had started. A slight breeze was not enough to hide the symphony of low wheezes and pounding feet that now echoed over the colony. Jacob's blood felt like ice. "Ready weapons!" he shouted. "Take position! Now!" The moaning intensified, until even Grunt looked about nervously.

It turned out the collectors _had_ noticed them.

It was astonishing how rapidly the situation turned. The squad had barely had time to raise their weapons and crouch behind the railing when the entire street exploded with furious activity. Shambling black silhouettes, hunched and ragged imitations of the human form, poured from every alley and barreled towards the group with glittering malice in their luminescent eyes. Jacob had always aimed for the eyes – something about their glassy blue glow helped him accept what the husks were, or more accurately what they were not. They were not human anymore.

The sound of the squad's opening salvos filled the air.

"Holy shit!" Zaeed shouted, dropping to a knee and sweeping through the shambling mass approaching them with his assault rifle. Dark, coagulated blood spattered in every direction. Each impact tore the unshielded husks apart with ease, blowing off limbs or splitting heads like melons, but the creatures kept coming like a tide. The husks did not falter, nor react to the pain at all. Even some of the more determined limbs continued to crawl towards them as the horde continued to expand. "What the hell are these things!"

"Husks," Jacob said, face in a grim frown as he fired over and over into the swirling mass of angry limbs. "Cybernetics."

"The colonists?"

"No," Jacob said, pulping the husk front lines as they closed the distance. "Aim for the joints." Never in his life had he imagined so many husks at once – the ground seemed to shake under their combined weight. But at least they weren't fresh, still dripping with strips of flesh displaced by the burrowing circuitry. At least you couldn't see your friends' faces on them.

The group stood their ground as long as they could, shredding the waves of husks, but more and more appeared with each passing second. The whole legion pushed forward with a scrambling intensity, climbing over each other and giving their blood-curdling screams. Jacob's team's height advantage let them slaughter the approaching cybernetics with impunity, but soon the husks were on them, clambering over the ever-growing piles of their fallen brethren.

"Additional threats incoming," Mordin said calmly as four or five collectors dropped from the sky, landing amongst the sea of husks. Lasers lanced from their weapons with thunderous report, sweeping across the squad's cover and nearly decapitating Zaeed, who swore and dove for safety.

"_Now_ can we use the flamethrowers!" Grunt shouted, backhanding a trio of husks hard enough to send them flying in pieces.

"Use them!" Jacob shouted. "Carefully!" Grunt didn't seem to have heard the last word, too busy laughing as he drew the flamethrower's igniter and primed it. It gave a deadly sounding beep, joined seconds later by Zaeed's, and then twin plumes of fire set the world ablaze. A wave of oily heat bloomed as the two sent streams of scorching fuel into the enemy masses.

The husks' desiccated flesh burnt, and in seconds the whole battlefield was an inferno. Jacob saw one of the collectors stray too close to the arcing fuel streams and burn away like paper. Zaeed and Grunt worked effectively, tracing out neat walls of fire all around the battlefield, watching as the husks barreled into the flames without the barest hesitation.

The crackle of splitting flesh was deafening. Jacob drowned it out as best as he could as he and Mordin took advantage of the momentary lull to climb atop the building and take cover behind a swamp cooler, away from the licking heat of the thirty-foot tower of flame. The high-pitched chatter of alien assault rifles announced the arrival of two more collectors. Jacob could almost feel the oncoming laser fire, and dropped into a familiar stance. The amp at the back of his skull gave a delicious hum that tickled at the deepest parts of his brain, flaring to a head as Jacob punched the air in front of him. Dark energy rippled out from wherever it had been hiding, blooming out from Jacob's arms into a great barrier just as a pair of yellow energy beams struck home. The shimmering wall hung in the air, twisting and fading as it soaked up fire, until Jacob gave it a great push and watched it barrel forwards, plowing through collectors and husks alike.

Another great amber beam shook the air, and Jacob felt the building shake. It was coming apart. "We have to get away from the building!" Jacob shouted into his communicator. It was a prefab – solidly built – but it was no castle. "Zaeed! Grunt! Try to push them back towards the earthmovers!"

"Right away, Taylor," Zaeed shouted back, turning his stream onto a new pack of husks that had burst through another alley in the distance. Grunt just laughed.

Trading a significant glance with Mordin, Jacob ran for the back of the building. Below, a half-dozen husks who'd managed to avoid the inferno scrambled at the rear walls – they were quickly dispatched. As he and Mordin climbed down the building's gutters, Jacob heard the sound of collector wings from above. One landing right next to them was quickly slain by a dart from Mordin, and the two of them made a beeline for a line of prefabs on the next block.

More collectors dropped in from both sides, splitting up to flank Jacob and Mordin's retreat. These were a far cry from the passive workers they'd killed earlier, and moved with graceful coordination, slowly shepherding them along, pushing them back towards the husk horde. For their part, the husks seemed to lose interest in assaulting Zaeed and Grunt's position and barreled towards Jacob and Mordin without hesitation. Jacob did his best to keep his foes sandwiched between him and the fires, but before long he found himself separated from the professor.

Even as he let his training take over, Jacob could still hear his squadmates chatter in the back of his head. Grunt's boyish laughter, the stream of curses that seemed to come as natural to Zaeed as breathing, Mordin's calm analysis of the battlefield. But none of it registered. He was in his element, and time seemed to slow. His shotgun kicked in his hand, over and over as he fired it into the writhing field of husks that steamrolled towards him. He continuously gave up ground, backing up to stretch out the husk ranks and keeping as many buildings as possible between him and the approaching collectors. His hands worked fast, throwing up biotic fields as fast as he could conjure them. Dozens of husks were vaulted from their feet as they tripped over his barriers and were pounded into the ground by those behind them. Jacob's limbs burned with exertion, and more so when one of the husks finally caught up with him and sank its bladed fingertips into his bicep, but he was a killing machine when he wanted to be and left an orderly swathe of destruction in his wake. He kept cool, he didn't let the heat of the moment cloud his planning. He kept control.

"I am assuming direct control."

The synthetic voice boomed from the nearest collector as if a loudspeaker had been implanted in its head (and, Jacob thought fleetingly, it probably had). The voice was so jarring, so deeply unnatural, that Jacob started, his hesitancy earning him another painful gash from a lucky husk. He staggered backwards, eyes fixed on the collector a few meters ahead of him, which had doubled over as if in incredible pain. A flash of light burgeoned in its chest before growing so intense it shone through the creases in its armor and illuminated the creature's four eyes like beacons. Jacob felt the dark energy course off of the creature as it stood and fixed him with a deadly gaze, tossing its weapon to the side.

The glowing collector's opening attack came too fast for him to react. A great wisp of black and brown – not the pleasant blue aura of any biotics Jacob had ever seen – shot towards him like a cannonball. It struck him in the stomach and Jacob felt the world lift out from under him. He heard the tinkle of his visor shattering into powder before his back connected with a solid surface. Pain blossomed and he cried out as he struck ground.

"This hurts you," the empowered collector stated in its basso, grim reaper's voice.

_No kidding_, Jacob thought, teeth gritted in pain as he rolled to his feet and peeled his crumpled helmet from his head. His shoulder thrummed with agony and demanded that he stop, but he ignored it, diving for cover just in time to avoid another biotic assault, which struck an abandoned loading truck hard enough to send it toppling.

"Cybernetic construct," Mordin was saying over the communicator. "Surgically implanted endoskeleton controlled from outside source. Shepard's classified reports described similar technology in Saren. Fascinating."

"Whatever! How do I kill it!" Jacob shouted, slamming his way through scattered husks as he scrambled for safety. He could hear the sound of the construct collector's flesh being cooked by the powerful machines within.

"Suggest bullets. Possibly EMP."

The creature shrugged off gunfire in its single-minded pursuit. Skin and muscle peeled off of its frame, revealing a grisly marionette of glowing bars beneath, but it showed no signs of slowing down. It closed on Jacob quickly, and he felt another biotic field hurl him to the ground hard enough to force the air from his lungs. Stars exploded before Jacob's eyes and it was all he could do to listen to the thud of the creature's approaching footsteps. He turned to see its glowing eyes piercing the blur.

"Human," it said, reaching out a clawed hand.

And then burst into flames.

Jacob blinked dumbly as the possessed collector was devoured under a torrent of flame from Grunt's flamethrower. It stood for several seconds, its flesh blackening away to reveal a charred skeleton armature, and Jacob was almost convinced it was going to keep chasing him when it collapsed to the ground, its glow finally receding.

Grunt laughed uproariously as he plodded over to stand next to Jacob. "Krogan!" he barked, utterly amused with himself, before turning the flame back onto the husks, which screamed and died in droves. For the briefest of moments, Jacob chuckled deliriously at the prospect of owing a krogan his life. Above him Grunt stood solid like a mountain, bleeding from a half dozen places but full of immovable vigor all the same. Perhaps Shepard had been right to trust him.

Jacob's relief turned to terror as he watched Grunt's jet of flame arc towards a half dozen husks still scrambling at the prefab where they'd hidden the paralyzed colonists. His mind cleared in an instant.

"Grunt! STOP!" he shouted, but it was too late. The fuel struck home and the building lit up like a torch, devouring husk and colonist alike.

–

"WHAT DID YOU DO!" Jacob demanded ten minutes later, gesturing at the blackened remains of the battlefield. The enemies had stopped flowing and, except for the lick of fires and the restrained moan of the occasional dismembered husk, the world was quiet.

"Saved your life," Grunt grunted.

"You could have killed them all!" Jacob shouted, furious. "You _never_ risk innocents!" He kept his gaze pointedly away from the burnt out shell of the building. He and Zaeed had rushed in and dragged out anyone they could get their hands on, but the fuel had burnt angrily and less than half of the colonists had been saved.

"They risk themselves by standing in the battlefield," Grunt said. "If they had honor at all they would gladly die to see the collectors killed." Jacob stomped up to Grunt's face, ignoring the way the krogan towered over him. He knew getting in a krogan's space was a sure way to get your neck broken, but he didn't care. "Back off," Grunt warned, unrepentant as he brandished the barrel of his flamethrower.

Jacob was not stupid enough to punch a krogan out of rage, but he was stupid enough to take one's weapon. With a swift biotic move he yanked the flamethrower nozzle from Grunt's hands. Grunt stumbled as the fuel tubes ripped away, sending thick, sticky oil gushing across the ground.

"You're lucky I don't gun you down where you stand," Jacob growled, staring defiantly into the krogan's astonished face.

Grunt hit him.

* * *

_7 years previously…_

–

Jacob was the only man in the _Anaximander's_ converted brig, but he wasn't alone. Might as well have been, though – the elcor in the other cell wasn't much of a conversationalist. It had remained stone-still, frozen in a defeated posture, since the two of them had been incarcerated two weeks before. In the rare moments when its beady eyes had opened Jacob had tried to engage it in conversation, but he hadn't been able to glean anything useful amongst the swatches of what he suspected was the slow-motion elcor version of a panic attack.

He shook his head and set back to doing pull-ups on the doorframe. He did them carefully, in perfect form; his breathing measured and slow, his movements smooth. He yoked his mind and body equally into the rhythm of each repetition; letting the exercise quiet his tempest of thoughts and stamp down on the prickly feeling he still felt where his amp should be.

Jacob had no illusions of being a particularly smart man, but he was prone to over-contemplating things. He measured things in his head, ruminated over them until they'd lost all context. He mused about his purpose, his every choice. He regretted things. Though the crew had snuck him a few magazines to pass the time with, he'd long since read them all through and now, with only a silent elcor as companion, his thoughts seemed very loud indeed.

_Nice guys finish last_, his mind told him, so clearly he might have thought his father was in the cell with him. It was the last thing Ronald Taylor had said to him, the night they'd had the fight. The night before Ronald abandoned him, abandoned everything, to serve as first mate on the _Gernsback._

Jacob had done his best to rationalize the bad memories away. He just had to think about it enough, turn it around in his mind until it made sense, and bit-by-bit his anger at his father had dissipated. He'd been upset when he'd heard about the _Gernsback_'s disappearance a few years later, but it was mostly out of sentimentality for what Ronald Taylor had been in the past. The man who'd raised him, the man he'd respected, had died long before that. Jacob had resolved not to let it destroy him.

But that last line – _nice guys finish last _– had never truly left him. He hated that saying, hated that the world had reduced his father to that, had convinced him that the morals he'd taught Jacob were not worth his time anymore. It was a terrible weakness, to say such a thing, to give up yourself for the sake of convenience. The warning seemed particularly appropriate now, however. Here he was, rotting in jail, because he'd done the right thing. It was upsetting to think that his father might have been right. To think that he might actually agree.

He increased the pace of his exercising, pushing that thought from his head for the umpteenth time.

"Apologetically," a rumbling voice said, "could you please stop that?"

Surprised, Jacob dropped to the floor and looked to the elcor, who stared back at him with beady eyes. "You got it," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with one sleeve. He sat down on his cell's makeshift bed. "You finally decided to start talking?"

The elcor sighed wearily. "Resigned. The ship has docked with an Alliance vessel, no doubt to transfer me to a maximum security facility for permanent incarceration. I have accepted my fate."

Jacob frowned, listening carefully. When he strained his ears he could hear muffled voices from the upper deck, but could not resolve the words. He supposed elcor just had better hearing. It was odd to think of Justinian intentionally approaching an Alliance craft, however. By and large they'd tried to avoid the Alliance, if only to keep their connection a secret.

It had been two years since Jacob had finally swallowed his pride and joined Justinian's crew, and even after two years, he still didn't think he understood his captain. It was clear, of course, that Justinian was nothing if not a pretender. He was the sort of man who always wore a big smile, always told you exactly what you wanted to hear, even while he was preparing to screw you over. He rarely joined the ground crew, but when he did, his silver tongue was a thing to behold. He could lie his crew's way through just about any situation. Jacob had found himself hating the man's dishonest character, and the two had clashed over how to handle situations over and over. Still, Justinian ran a tight ship and got things done. Things that needed doing. Personal dislike aside, Jacob had stayed on this long because he truly believed that the _Anaximander_ was fighting for the galaxy's best interests, however smarmy her captain might have been.

That was, of course, until said captain had seen fit to lock him up. Justinian had claimed, the last time they'd spoken, that he'd turn Jacob over to an Alliance for disciplinary action. Maybe that _was_ really what he intended to do with him and the elcor, but somehow Jacob doubted it. More likely, if the Alliance really had boarded, it was quite outside of the captain's plans.

"You know," Jacob said, eyeing the elcor, "you could just escape. This place isn't even a real brig. I think it used to be a laundry room or something. You could break your cell door and make a run for it." None of the ground team, at least, would lift a finger against the harmless alien.

The elcor stared blankly at him before ever so slowly lifting a hand and resting it against the cell wall. His massive limbs dwarfed the skinny bars holding him in – Jacob could imagine them bending like plastic under any real effort. "Horrified," the elcor said, examining the bars, "you are correct. But I have already called in dissonance to the herd. I will not compound my crimes by attempting to escape justice."

Despite the melancholy of the alien's words, Jacob couldn't help but smile. Elcor were so damnably charming it was hard not to.

"You know, you never actually told us what you did," Jacob said. He and the _Anaximander's _ground team had found the elcor standing hostage in the pirate base they'd infiltrated on Shopa. The creature had been (it claimed, anyway) terrified to the point of confusion and had demanded they kill it for its crimes. It was only when Jacob had promised to jail it that it had been convinced to leave the base. He figured they'd deal with it when they got back to the ship, but of course then he'd ended up pissing off the captain and now they were _both_ in jail.

"Melancholy confession," the elcor said. "I am Wunya, elcor inventor and merchant of the Shopa herd. Three standard months ago I was abducted by the Crawler gang and forced to ply my trade on their equipment. I buckled to their threats of violence and modified several of their firearms with advanced accelerator rails of my own design." Wunya stared down at his feet. "My work has been used to commit violence and injustice upon the innocent. I am complicit. My guilt consumes me."

"That doesn't sound so bad, Wunya," Jacob said, doing his best not to laugh at the alien's comically neutral proclamation of guilt. "You were a hostage. You had no choice."

"Forcefully. I called in dissonance to the herd. I was weak. I am guilty."

"We stopped the Crawlers, Wunya. Your work isn't in their hands anymore."

"Pleased. I am pleased. But I am not exonerated. I expect your Alliance will wish to execute me for my crimes. I will accept my punishment."

Jacob's response was cut off by the sound of the door sliding open. He fell silent and craned his neck to watch as an Alliance officer strode inside, flanked by two marines and followed by a nervous-looking Justinian. The officer – a large, broad-shouldered man with dark hair sprinkled with just enough gray to look distinguished – stared around the room for a moment. His eyes fell upon Jacob and Wunya and he gave a disapproving scowl.

"Captain Andsworth," he said, "tell me you do not have Jacob Taylor incarcerated in your hold." Behind him, one of the marines tapped frantically on a datapad.

"Taylor, Major Izunami?" Justinian asked, planting himself in front of the officer (smiling, as always). "Never heard of him."

For a moment, Jacob feared that the major would fall for Justinian's games like so many others did, but the big man simply shook his head. He looked to Jacob again, his face friendly. "Mr. Taylor?" he asked.

"I'm Taylor," Jacob confirmed, ignoring the dark look Justinian sent him. "Have we met?"

"No Mr. Taylor, no we haven't. But I've known about you for some time. My name is Major Derek Izunami, Alliance. I command the 2nd Frontier division."

"Sir," Jacob said, snapping off as official a salute as he could manage. Izunami nodded his approval, then turned back to Justinian.

"Interesting to me, Captain, to find Mr. Taylor here on your crew," he said. "Alliance has had its eyes on recruiting him for some years now. You'd think him joining the Corsairs would be _reported._" The last word hung in the air.

"I assure you, I did report it, Major," Justinian said, the lie obvious in his eyes.

"I suppose you figured you'd found yourself your own biotic, free for the taking," Izunami said, cutting him off and striding towards Jacob's cell. "Wonderfully good fortune for you. Stable human biotics like Mr. Taylor are rare. Valuable." He stared at Jacob for a moment. "Now tell me, Mr. Taylor, why you are in this cell, and why you have not broken your way out to wreak vengeance on this man you call a captain." Justinian started to answer for him until Izunami silenced him with a hand. He looked to Jacob, brows raised expectantly.

"Three weeks ago," Jacob started, "I led a ground team on Shopa to put a stop to the Crawler gang's kidnappings, under what the captain told us were Alliance orders." Izunami nodded. "We infiltrated their base and freed several captives, including the elcor. We trapped the gang's ringleaders in their headquarters and went in to make arrests. They were mostly who we had expected – known turian slave traders, mostly. But we found a human man with them, who had apparently been negotiating a deal with them." Jacob shook his head. "We cuffed him too, until Captain Andsworth radioed in to tell us that he should be let free."

"Did the Captain give a reason?"

"No sir, but one of the ground crew believed he recognized the man as an Alliance staff commander. Graves, I believe was the name. We presumed the Captain wanted to avoid Alliance backlash for exposing one of their officers."

"And what did you do?"

"I refused. The man was a slave trader, Alliance or not. His victims deserved justice. When it became clear that the Captain would not do the right thing, I took Graves to the Shoba police department myself. When I returned to the _Anaximander_ I was locked in here and my amp removed. I was told I would be taken to face an Alliance court for insubordination, though I'm surprised it took so long."

Izunami smiled wryly. "Would have taken a lot longer if we hadn't been tracking your Captain for another issue. He wasn't about to take you anywhere near an Alliance court." The Major stood and stared at Justinian, who scowled back.

"Private," he said to the marine with the datapad, his eyes not leaving the captain's, "please put down that due to numerous conduct violations, Captain Andsworth has not passed inspection to my satisfaction. His ship will be detained and a formal investigation will be levied against him." He turned back to Jacob. "And as for you, Mr. Taylor," he said. "Your captain conveniently _forgot_ to register you on his crew, and so you are officially not in the Alliance. However, I wonder if I can convince you to change that."

Jacob frowned. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Join my division," Izunami said simply. "The Alliance needs men like you, men willing to stand up to men like Graves. The 2nd Frontier is mostly security to fringe colonies. Heaven knows we can always use help."

"You aren't going to leave me in here if I say no, are you?"

Izunami smiled. "Of course not. But Alliance command has always assumed you'd end up joining us eventually." He shrugged. "Why not sooner rather than later?" He held out a hand.

It took Jacob all of a second to make up his mind. He smiled and shook Izunami's hand. "When do we leave?"

–

At Izunami's orders, the cell was opened and Jacob stepped into freedom, grinning victoriously at a visibly ruffled Justinian. His amp was returned to him and settled into its familiar place on the back of his skull. He looked around the room again – for the final time, he hoped – and his eyes fell on Wunya, who was still staring morosely at the ground.

"Major," he said, an idea occurring. "I wonder if the 2nd Frontier could use a weapons technician."

Izunami followed Jacob's gaze to the elcor. His brow rose curiously. "Perhaps. Do you know one?"

"I do," Jacob said, nodding as solemnly as he could manage. "An elcor. I hear he has a great talent for weaponry, but his skills have been used for evil in the past." Behind him, Wunya's massive head rose to stare at his back. "I think it is only a fitting punishment that he be forced to repay his heinous crimes to the galaxy by outfitting your soldiers."

Izunami nodded, catching on. He scratched at his chin and made a show out of inspecting Wunya from every angle. "I don't know, Mr. Taylor," he said. "That seems harsh."

"Oh I assure you, he deserves it," Jacob said, not quite hiding his smirk. "He has talked dissonantly with the others, or something."

"Very well then," Izunami agreed. "You there," he said, pointing at Wunya. "Come with us." The elcor was released and, if possible, looked slightly cheered as it plodded out of its cell. One of the marines patted the alien's massive flank and led it away.

"Thank you sir," Jacob said once Wunya's heavy footsteps had receded into the distance. "I imagine we can drop him off on Shopa if you don't really want his help, though he might not allow it. Either way, I appreciate it.

Izunami nodded. "You're welcome. I'll have the paperwork sent off immediately. You'll join my unit straightaway," he said, before fixing Jacob with an expectant stare. "I don't know what you've been doing out here on this ship, but in my division, we follow orders. Understood, private?"

"Yes sir," Jacob said, saluting again.

"Then your first order is to incarcerate Captain Andsworth," Izunami said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He inclined his head towards the cells.

Jacob was smiling as they left the brig and former-Captain Justinian's indignant shouts behind.

Nice guys finish last?

_Yeah right._

* * *

_Presently…_

–

For the second time that day, Jacob struck the ground hard enough to make the world spin. For the second time that day, he looked up to watch a murderous alien rampage towards him, a symphony of charging meat. Grunt was as agile as a glacier but just as unstoppable, and Jacob had a few bleary seconds to wonder just how deep underground the krogan was about to stomp him.

There was a gunshot and Grunt stumbled. He staggered to a stop mere feet shy of Jacob as another shot glanced off the plating at his neck. He snarled and whirled about in time to get another bullet to the forehead – this one ricocheted off with an impressive crack, sending chips of bone armor spinning through the air. Two more shots to the collar nearly knocked the krogan over.

"Step again," Zaeed dared, smoothly popping a fresh heatsink into his pistol. "Next one goes through your eye."

Grunt stared murderously at the scarred mercenary, gaze unwavering even as rivulets of sticky orange blood started to run down his armored chest. Even from the ground, Jacob could see the krogan's mind working, calculating his odds. If the five bullets he'd already taken had phased him, he gave no sign. His predatory eyes flickered between Jacob and Zaeed with a deadly gleam. In a flash he'd made up his mind and he took a lurching dash for the mercenary.

A plume of blood erupted under Grunt's left eye and he dropped to the ground with a roar of agony and rage.

"Wrong choice," Zaeed said, face grim. "Next one goes in your brain." Grunt roared in fury and thrashed out with every limb but moved no further, curling up around his bleeding face.

Mordin appeared in the haze above Jacob's head, an unstable blur of frantic movement as he helped the fallen man rise to a sitting position. "Broken ribs," Mordin intoned to himself. A light flashed in Jacob's eyes as he fought to get his head together. "Concussion." Questing fingers pried his mouth apart. Mordin's omni-tool clicked and beeped as he swept it over every part of Jacob's body, _tsk_ing to himself in concern. He drew a needle and jabbed it forcefully into one of Jacob's fingers, causing him to cry out in pain. Seconds later the process was repeated at the feet. "Pain reflex undamaged. Cogent, Operative Taylor?"

Jacob grunted. He felt Mordin's injector at his wrist and a sudden sharpening feeling as his head's muddiness cleared, giving way to pain. He groaned miserably, trying and failing to spit the taste of blood from his mouth. "Goddamn krogan."

Mordin opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off as Jacob's communicator crackled. "Jacob!" Shepard shouted, sounding so uncharacteristically terrified that Jacob sat up in fright. "Send Mordin to my position, NOW."

Jacob felt his stomach twist. Perfect timing for a disaster. Just _perfect_. "He's on his way," he said, waving Mordin off. "What happened?"

"We got a man down! Some kind of biotic attack," Shepard said. In the background Jacob could still hear the chatter of gunfire. "It's Miranda," Shepard said at last, confirming Jacob's worst fears. "Get over here, Mordin!"

Mordin shook his head. "Operative Taylor injured, Commander," he protested. "Cannot abandon him now."

"Is he dying?" Shepard demanded. There was an explosion on his end of the line.

"I'm okay." Jacob insisted, shakily trying to rise to his feet. Blood pulsed in his head and his hands itched to reclaim his fallen shotgun. "Miranda needs you."

Mordin shook his head. "No wish to see Miranda dead," he insisted. "Not heartless. Simply aware of concept of triage. Can help _you_ here, now. Miranda may be beyond help."

"GO. I'll be fine. Go!"

Mordin stared at him for a pregnant moment, the intellect behind his enormous eyes working. Jacob grimaced back. "Going, then," Mordin said finally, nodding resolutely. He stood and faced Zaeed, who still had his gun trained on the moaning krogan on the ground. "Do not allow Operative Taylor to move quickly. If disorientation persists, force him to rest," he commanded. The mercenary nodded his understanding, and Mordin, satisfied, rushed away. In seconds he was gone.

Jacob sat on the ground, struggling to find the strength to rise. Miranda needed help and every part of his body screamed at him for not being there to give it. His heart beat furiously, adrenaline coursed through his veins, and yet he could barely lift himself before his arms gave way and he flopped back into the dust. He tried again, pointedly ignoring the way Zaeed stared down at him.

"Doctor said to sit your ass down," Zaeed reminded him.

"Yeah, well, I'm not listening," Jacob insisted, managing to rise to a kneeling position. He put a hand down to steady himself as he tried to make his feet obey.

"I seen men take hits like that," the merc continued, rubbing his chin. "Big bastard mighta torn something up in your innards. You move too much, you tear it the rest of the way."

Jacob scowled. The old windbag never knew when to shut up. Gritting his teeth, Jacob rested on all fours for a moment, placing each foot with care. As soon as he dared, he gave a heave with both arms and staggered to his feet. He stood for all of three seconds before losing his balance and falling. "My friend is hurt!" Jacob snapped as his frustration came to a head. "I don't give a damn about that!"

"You're a loony."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," he growled, spitting the dust out of his mouth before trying again.

"Right, 'cuz I'm just a mercenary," Zaeed said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I never had someone I cared about". Jacob was shocked to see a calloused hand appear in front of him. He looked up into Zaeed's mismatched face – unreadable as always – and actually felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't seen it before, but Zaeed _did_ seem like a man who might understand loss.

He took the mercenary's outstretched hand.

–

They made all haste to Shepard's location, Jacob leaning against Zaeed's armored shoulder while the mercenary herded Grunt along at gunpoint. The krogan sulked angrily but put up no resistance. His eye socket was a blackened mess of gore, already scabbing over, but flashes of furious blue proved Zaeed had spared the eyeball itself. It was more mercy than Grunt deserved, as far as Jacob was concerned.

They caught up to Shepard's team at the base of one of the colony's defense towers. Corpses of every kind littered the ground in all directions – dozens of husks and collectors and foes Jacob could not begin to describe, twisted wrecks seemingly cobbled together from human bodies. Aside from them, enemies were nowhere to be seen – the occasional husk straggler came screaming into the plaza, only to be cleanly picked off by Garrus from his vantage point atop a nearby building.

"Shepard," Jacob said, spying the commander arguing with Tali and EDI at a nearby console. "Where is she?"

Shepard looked up at the sound of his voice. "Both of you get over it," he ordered Tali and EDI, before stomping up to the approaching trio. He was covered in collector blood and dirt, breath heaving and face angry. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"Grunt happened," Zaeed said before Jacob could answer. Jacob was about to ask about Miranda again, but the anger that crossed Shepard's face as the commander whirled on Grunt gave him pause.

"You attacked them?" he asked the krogan, voice low.

"Taylor disarmed me," Grunt mumbled.

The air temperature seemed to rise around Shepard. "I thought you wanted a clan," he said furiously. "Is this krogan loyalty?"

"No," Grunt admitted, sounding (to Jacob's shock) truly repentant for the first time.

"There are no traitors, Grunt. Not in _my_ clan," Shepard said, grabbing Grunt's collar and pulling the bleeding krogan down to look him in the eye. Amazingly, Grunt seemed to shrink next to the commander. "_Not ever_." He gave Grunt a shove (the krogan barely moved) and turned. "Garrus!" he shouted, looking up at the turian sniper. "If Grunt takes another move against me, make sure it's the last one he ever takes! I am his warlord, and if he can't find some honor and loyalty then he's a clanless varren. Put a bullet in his head and let him die in the dirt like the animal he is!" He cast a dark look at Grunt. The threat seemed to be having its intended effect, and Grunt stared shamefully at his toes.

"Shepard," Jacob said, sensing his opportunity.

"She's in there, with Mordin," Shepard said, interrupting him and pointing off to a nearby building. "Are you fit to fight?"

Jacob hesitated. "Yes," he decided after a moment.

"Then I need you out here. EDI and Tali are about to turn the GARDIANs on and they're going to hit us with everything they got. We have to set up. Zaeed," he said, turning to the mercenary, "you're with me up front. The rest will take the rear. Go find some cover." Zaeed grunted in agreement and rushed off, assault rifle in hands.

"Shepard..." Jacob said.

"I need you focused on this one, Taylor," Shepard said, ignoring him. "_She_'s going to need you focused. Can't help her if we all die."

Jacob swallowed his fears. The commander as right, of course. And in any case was clearly in no mood to argue the point. "You can count on me, Commander."

* * *

_2 years previously…_

–

The perfect woman.

Jacob had had a lot on his mind lately. The _Jade's _bartenders knew their stuff, and the drinks he and Miranda had ordered had been potent enough to chase most of his worries away for a while, but now that he was awake they were back in force, poking at him through the haze of a spectacular hangover. But still, of all the things he'd learned about Miranda last night, all the amazing things she'd said after the drink had started to chip away at her usually invulnerable inhibitions, that one, offhand claim had stood out.

She was the _perfect_ woman. She'd said it simply, with no arrogance, as if she were commenting on the weather. Jacob had not been surprised in the least. She certainly _looked_ perfect. And she was clearly a genius of the rarest kind. It didn't matter what topic he'd brought up, even drunk Miranda had come off like an expert. She knew more about biotics than he did. More about the Alliance than he did. More about his _homeworld_ than he did. What stood out to him, though, was something that had been in her tone. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said to her, but he'd been very complimentary at first. And it had _upset_ her. She hadn't said anything, but she'd clammed up, closed herself off, distanced herself from him until he'd steered the conversation away from her.

The perfect woman was self-conscious. It was too weird to be true, but it was.

Jacob poured over everything in his pounding head as he stumbled off of the couch where he'd slept the night, having ceded the bed to Miranda. He felt absolutely famished and so, as soon as he'd pulled on a shirt, he walked into the kitchen of his spacious vacation suite to find something to eat.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to see Miranda up already, but she was, calmly seated at the table tapping away at her computer. She looked… (he sighed at the word choice, but could come up with no other) perfect, her hair back in place, her clothes wrinkle-free. She didn't look hung-over in the least, despite having had at least twice what he had (Jacob didn't feel threatened by talented women in general, but he _did_ think it a special kind of injustice to be drunk under the table by someone half his size).

Miranda didn't look up when he entered, but pointed towards a plate and glass of juice on the counter. Jacob mumbled his thanks, grabbed the food, and sat down opposite her. He downed the juice in one gulp and set upon the meal with relish.

"Feeling better?" Miranda asked once the last bite was gone.

"So much better," Jacob said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Ten thirty-seven," she replied instantly, not needing to check her computer.

"Sheesh. My old major would have kicked my ass for sleeping in like this," Jacob said, chuckling. "Not to mention the hangover thing."

"Yes, well, I took the liberty of drugging your drink. Your head should clear up shortly."

Jacob blinked in surprise for a moment. Was she joking? Miranda just looked at him.

_Of course not._ He shook his head, sighing. "This how it's always going to be between us?" he asked, a little disappointed.

Miranda smiled. "I have nothing against you, Jacob," she said. "You are a talented man and a pleasure to work with. A friend, even. But last night was a one-time thing. I do not make a habit out of getting drunk at all, let alone with co-workers."

"Huh. And now that Jath'Amon is dealt with, are we still co-workers?"

Miranda clicked her computer off. "I mentioned last night that I had a proposition for you," she reminded him.

Jacob nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. He'd been delighted (if a little shocked) to see Miranda show up unannounced at his door, bottle of expensive champagne in her hands, but when she'd made it clear she only wanted to offer him a job, he'd put his foot down. It had taken some convincing, but eventually he'd managed to persuade her to just have fun, if only for one night. They _were_ on a luxury liner, after all. "I'm listening."

Miranda nodded. "First, a question. I know what the reports say, but I want to hear it from your mouth. Why did you leave the Alliance?"

Jacob frowned, thinking. It was something he'd put a great deal of thought into, like just about every decision in his life, and he found the answer came to his lips easily. "I want to do good," he said. "I want to do the most good I can, I want to protect people from the evils out there." He gestured to the stars sliding lazily past the windows. "I thought I was doing that in the Alliance. My whole division, it was about protecting fringe colonies. I thought that was important, I thought that was the best I could do." He paused, shaking his head. Miranda nodded knowingly and waited for him to continue.

"And then Eden Prime happened. Turns out the batarians and pirates we expected were geth and spectres and husks." He fixed Miranda with a serious look. "They kicked our asses, Miranda. We didn't have a chance. Alliance can dress it up however they like in the reports, but the two twelve probably didn't kill twenty geth between us. If Shepard and Anderson hadn't been there, the whole colony would be gone right now, and it would be the Alliance's fault." He sighed. "I guess that just convinced me that the bad guys out there are bigger than the Alliance. I respect them, I really do, but they clearly aren't going to be the ones who do the real saving work. When I heard Shepard and Anderson had left that was the final straw."

Miranda looked enormously satisfied by his answer. "And what do you intend to do now?"

"Find out who _can_ stop the bad guys and do whatever it takes to help them. Or just do the best on my own." He shrugged. "Don't really know yet." Jacob had originally boarded the _Arcturus Jade _at Izunami's urging. The major – who had turned out to be more a mentor than a commanding officer – had been upset to lose him but had understood his reasoning. Izunami had suggested that some relaxation would help Jacob find what he needed. And then, of course, the ship had been attacked by batarians and started this whole mess.

Had Izunami known about the batarians' plans and intentionally set Jacob in their path? Jacob couldn't see how, but he wouldn't put it past the man. Derek Izunami was a leader, a manipulator. Born to direct the energies of soldiers like Jacob. If he looked like he knew twice as much as he claimed, it was because he knew _three_ times that much. That was the kind of person he was.

Of course, so was Miranda. She was smiling at him (which he already understood to be a rare thing to witness). "Jacob Taylor, you are a wiser man than you know. The bad guys _are_ bigger than the Alliance. Much, much bigger." She had a devious gleam in her eye, the gleam of someone for whom everything was going right. She had him where she wanted him, wherever that was.

Of course, follower or no, Jacob was not stupid. It wasn't hard to guess what enemies she might be referring to. "As big as the ship that attacked the Citadel?" he asked slyly.

"About that big, yes."

"And I suppose you're about to tell me you represent someone that can do something about that?"

Miranda nodded. "I want you to be my lieutenant. You have the skills that I need. My organization represents the best of humanity. The best science, the best weapons, the best intelligence. We fight the _real_ threats to humanity, and you should be among us."

Jacob frowned. "How do I know you're on the level with me here?"

"I have not misled you in the past, and I am not misleading you now. You trust me because you _want_ to trust me. Because you know you're right about the Alliance. I can tell you the real story about what happened on Eden Prime. What happened on the Citadel. And I can put you somewhere where you can do something about it."

"Does Shepard work for you?"

Miranda's face fell the slightest bit. "Not yet."

Jacob fell silent, thinking, while Miranda watched on. Technically, he knew this was exactly the sort of thing he was looking for. Miranda had proven herself twenty times over on his quest to stop Jath'Amon. If her organization was anything like her, maybe they _could_ have stopped Eden Prime. And yet there was somehow something foreboding in her words. He did not miss that she hadn't named her employers yet. He looked at her. "I'll think about it."

"Excellent. Your possessions are being packed as we speak. They will be waiting for you at the transport station when we disembark."

Jacob was momentarily stunned. "You're that sure I'm going to agree, are you?"

Miranda smirked at him. "Am I wrong?" Jacob realized that she wasn't. He intended to think about it – he really did – and yet he already knew as well as she did he would say yes. Miranda caught his hesitation in a heartbeat and her grin grew smugger. "One thing you will soon learn, Mr. Taylor, is that I am _never_ wrong."

This time she _did_ sound arrogant, and Jacob couldn't help but smile. "Am I really that predictable? Every time someone offers me a job they tell me they already know I'll t-" Jacob was interrupted when Miranda's computer gave an urgent beep. Miranda's head snapped to attention, Jacob forgotten. Her eyes widened as she read the message that appeared on her screen, and her face – previously flawless – drew into a terrified scowl.

"What?" Jacob asked, worried by her sudden mood shift. Miranda wordlessly turned the computer so he could read the single line that flashed in the center.

_-Commander Shepard killed in action in the Amada system-_

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

Jacob was quiet as he was loaded onto the Kodiak on a stretcher next to Miranda's. Everyone was. They had fought and killed the collectors and lived, and yet none of them dared do anything to further instigate Shepard, whose mood had dropped so precipitously by the time Alenko had stormed off that he looked about ready to order Garrus to shoot them _all_ down. Even Tali had not been spared Shepard's anger when she'd stepped out of place and nearly taken one of the collector general's biotic warps to the chest, and now the quarian was sulking around like a kicked puppy, quietly helping Mordin collect samples from the legions of dead.

And if Shepard was ready to yell at _Tali_, Jacob knew it was time to keep his mouth shut.

Still, his mind raced a mile a minute, still pounding with the energy of battle, even an hour after the collectors had retreated. It was funny, in a cosmic kind of way. Despite the disaster that Horizon had been – Grunt's attack, two of the squad down, the collectors escaping with most of the colonists, and Shepard's shouting match with the Alliance commander – he realized he hadn't been wrong. They really had been a team. A bickering, disorganized team, but a deadly one all the same. Every one of the squad was a master combatant, and together the collectors had broke upon them like water on rock.

Jacob had propped himself up behind a fortress of crates where he didn't have to move and done his best, hurling collectors out of their cover and tossing barriers up whenever he had the strength. More than one collector managed to pin one of the squad only to find itself yanked backwards into full view of the others and quickly shredded by gunfire.

From his sniper's nest, Garrus had slain with impunity. The boom of his rifle had shook the battlefield over and over, each time signaling another kill. He never missed. He never fired more than once. Even the rare collector that flew up to dethrone him found itself immediately pumped full of assault rifle fire and kicked to the ground by the grim-faced former vigilante.

Zaeed and Shepard, taking cover on the front lines, had sprayed a constant stream of death with their assault rifles. Zaeed shouted and raged, taunting each kill, while Shepard was quiet, but both slaughtered with a clockwork efficiency, never a wasted degree of motion, never a misplaced moment.

Tali and Mordin had taken up the rear, their omni-tools glowing as they set the battlefield ablaze with traps. Smart-targeting grenades flew in every direction, arcing over obstacles and hurling themselves towards their foes with grisly enthusiasm. More than one collector seized and died as Mordin's home-brewed toxins coursed through its body, while Tali's drones sprouted across the battlefield like holographic flowers, fluttering into their opponents' faces and exploding with results far gruesome-er than their colorful cuteness would seem to allow.

Perhaps most spectacular of all, however, had been Grunt. Whether out of a deathwish or an earnest desire to get back into Shepard's good graces Jacob did not know, but the krogan had tossed himself into the fray with incomparable enthusiasm. He had eschewed cover and fought well ahead of the rest of the group, charging from enemy to enemy and grinding them into paste in his wake. Husks had swarmed over him like ants until he'd been buried under a pile of writhing black limbs, and yet nothing had seemed to slow him down. Husk and collector alike had been dashed to pieces in his rage, tossed about like chaff. Even the possessed collectors had looked puny next to the angry krogan – one had transformed right next to him and had hardly finished announcing itself when Grunt (apparently unimpressed) had grabbed it by its arms and torn it in two.

It had hardly been what Jacob would call a textbook operation. And yet it was hard not to be humbled (and even a bit terrified) by the show of power. They had painted the battlefield with their enemies. They had sent a message. Shepard was back, and he was _pissed_.

Jacob wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

From the next stretcher, Miranda gave a moan, and he turned to look at her. His eyes flickered over her, straining to see some semblance of activity from her, something to reassure him that she was alright, but there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of her stomach to prove she was even alive. Covered in bandages and with an oxygen mask clamped over her bloody face, she looked disturbingly like Shepard had when he'd first been wheeled into the Lazarus facility, all those months ago.

_Shepard survived_, his mind reminded him.

"Miranda?" he asked, ignoring the shooting pain in his stomach when he sat up.

She moved weakly, turning her head towards him and staring for several long seconds, as if fighting to remember who he was. "I told you you couldn't handle the krogan," she mumbled finally, voice slurred under the effects of the anesthesia.

Jacob laughed, despite himself. "How are you holding up?"

"Severe lacerations," she said, trying and failing to point to the bandages wadded over her arms and side. "Shearing biotic field. Blood loss."

"You'll pull through," Jacob said, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure. "You've been through worse." Though he doubted that.

"I'm in a tremendous amount of pain," she said simply, teeth grit. "Genetically engineered skin gives me the pain tolerance of an infant." She hissed deeply, clearly biting back tears. "Thanks a lot father."

For a moment, Jacob hesitated. Miranda wasn't telling him this for pity. She didn't want to be comforted. She wanted to be respected and left to deal with her pain alone.

_Too bad._

He reached for her hand and squeezed with all his might. There was a much-too-long pause, and then she squeezed back.

–

Miranda had slipped away again by the time Shepard finally stormed into the Kodiak and slammed the door, plunging Jacob into darkness. There was a brief delay, then the sound of engines firing as the pilot VI routines activated.

In the dim light, Jacob saw the commander slump down on the far bench, utterly defeated. The loss of the colonists stood on Shepard's shoulders like a great weight, and Jacob felt immediately ashamed. He'd spent all his time fretting about Miranda, but Miranda was on her way to medical treatment. So many others were collected, taken away for who knew what purpose. They had failed.

"I'm sorry, Commander," he croaked, releasing Miranda's hand and setting it gently at her side. "I screwed up."

"Don't, Jacob. Just don't," Shepard said, clutching his head in his hands. "I don't have the patience to deal with it right now." Jacob fell silent.

It was Shepard who finally broke it. "She got hit by some kind of giant husk," he said eventually, voice haunted. "Huge, bloated thing hit her with some kind of biotic attack, some kind of shearing wave. Before we even knew what had happened she was down. Couldn't even see her under all the blood."

"She's strong, Commander. She'll pull through."

"What if she doesn't?" Shepard demanded. "Or what if she's deformed for life? It would destroy her. If I hadn't..." Shepard started, staring into his hands as he let his sentence die. "And then I sent you off with Grunt." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "_I _screwed up, Jacob. And the two of you paid for it."

Jacob said nothing, sensing that Shepard wasn't really talking to him anyway. In the silence of the shuttle, the commander's grim thoughts seemed to echo from every direction as he stared hopelessly at Miranda's unconscious form.

"DAMNIT!" Shepard shouted, punching the shuttle wall so hard it dented.

–

**

* * *

Codex Entry: Transcript of the audio log of Dr. Mordin Solus, Normandy SR2 science lab, 01-13-2185**

_Mordin Solus: Trial 131. 31 milligrams of certropan injected dorsally into live subject AM-101, species 01-a, _Hemimechoptera racemia_, "seeker swarmer". Subject lethargic._

_EDI: Dr. Solus. Operative Lawson is requesting a progress update on the seeker swarm countermeasure._

_*clattering sound*_

_Mordin Solus: (sighs) Research not complete. Cannot be rushed. Reporting premature until verification._

_EDI: She demands a summary of preliminary results for transmission to the Illusive Man._

_Mordin Solus: Very well. Will summarize. Begin recording._

_EDI: Recording begins at 3:01:01 Earth standard time._

_Mordin Solus: First, disclaimer: All following observations based upon preliminary research only. Invalid until proper verification. Important._

_(clears throat)_

_14 samples of species 01-a acquired, ten dead, four living. Chemical analysis of dead specimens reveals previously unknown carbon-based biochemistry, fundamentally similar but independent from all known extant biospheres. Enriched sulfur levels, depressed phosphate levels. Genetic information carried in quad-stranded microgenomes, similar in many respects to fragments associated with prothean artifacts. May thus represent descendent of species from prothean homeworld. Cell extracts thus far unculturable._

_Dead specimens average 14.8 centimeters in length, measured dorsally, average 311 grams. Quadrupedal insect analogs. Rigid exoskeleton, four jointed limbs moved by combination of muscle fibers and hydrostatic force, two membranous wings moved by chest compressive muscles. No evidence of eyes or mouth. Single ventral slit contains three-centimeter stinger. Dissection reveals extensive cybernetic augmentation, average 127 grams of equipment implanted throughout body. Electronics clearly of advanced, unknown design. Digestive system removed, replaced with chemical power unit implanted into abdomen. Organic brain resected, integrated with computer interface and receiver. Appears species 01-a is biomechanical effector of external electric signal – cyborg drone of sorts. No evidence of previous surgery - probably engineered tissue grown over pre-fabricated cybernetic frame._

_Anterior thoracic device appears to be electronic pulse generator. Current hypothesis that generator primarily sensory in nature. Active electrosensory organ analog, creates electric fields and interprets their interaction with external fields. May explain selectivity for humans – human nervous impulses easily distinguishable from other species', produce different interference patterns. Several experiments in progress to test. May also play a role in interruption of communications – several lab instruments already damaged by subject pulses. Posterior thoracic device –"_

_*knocking sound*_

_Enter._

_Kenneth Donnelly: You said to meet you here when I was ready?_

_Mordin Solus: Ahh yes, excellent! Come in. First test subject for next experiment, exposure of human to live subject AM-103. Testing of paralysis mechanism._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Sheesh. Sounds a lot worse when you say it. I figured it's just a bug bite._

_*sound of Mordin Solus rummaging through equipment*_

_Mordin Solus: Mr. Donnelly first responder to open call for volunteers. Very brave. Suspect only volunteering as part of circuitous courtship ritual to impress female human crew members with bravery, but appreciated all the same._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Hey!_

_Mordin Solus: Preparing to inject Mr. Donnelly with mild sedative. Attaching cardiac, respiratory, and brain activity monitors. Will clean arm, then expose to subject AM-103 to study effects of paralysis on human subjects._

_*cracking sound*_

_Kenneth Donnelly: Cripes, look at the little bugger._

_Mordin Solus: Fascinating. Live subjects AM-101, 102, and 103 show greatly heightened aggression in presence of Mr. Donnelly. Attempting to break enclosures to attack. _

_Back to summary. Posterior thoracic device appears to be element zero injector. Nodes throughout remnants of seeker swarms' nervous systems suggest rudimentary biotic abilities. Current hypothesis, posterior thoracic device injects element zero-based toxin that interacts with host nervous system, producing a stasis effect not unlike that intentionally produced by many human and asari biotics. Believe effect is temporary, as toxin should ultimately be metabolized much like high dosage red sand or other element zero-based drugs._

_Kenneth Donnelly: You _believe_?_

_*more cracking*_

_Mordin Solus: Biotic individuals likely to recover swiftly due to higher metabolism, previous exposure to element zero. Or possibly recover more slowly due to risk of overtaxing nervous systems and stroke. Unsure._

_*shattering sound as subject AM-102 breaks enclosure glass*_

_*crashing sounds*_

_Kenneth Donnelly: Jesus Christ! It's out!_

_Mordin Solus: Stronger than anticipated. Will reinforce enclosures for next trials. Subject AM-102 shows persistent aggressive behavior towards Mr. Donnelly._

_*more crashing*_

_Kenneth Donnelly: Ahh, damnit! Kill it! Zap it with your omni-tool or something!_

_Mordin Solus: Only four living specimens. Must avoid killing. Also, EMP blast likely to harm lab equipment._

_*Kenneth Donnelly screams and falls silent*_

_Fascinating._

_EDI: Subject AM-102 has escaped the lab, Dr. Solus._

_*muffled shouting from outside lab*_

_Mordin Solus: End recording._

_EDI: Recording ended at 3:14:41 Earth standard time._

_EDI: Recording resumed at 7:13:28 Earth standard time._

_Mordin Solus: (panting) Subject AM-102 successfully recaptured, unharmed. Subject Kenneth Donnelly successfully paralyzed, along with four additional human crewmates stung during recapture efforts. Paralyzed crew moved to medical bay for monitoring. Life signs depressed but measurable. No obvious permanent damage. Encouraging. Trial 1 successful. Looking forward to trial 2. _

–

* * *

**A/N: **Boy, good thing I've been writing _shorter chapters_ so they don't _take so goddamn long to write_, huh? Way to show self-control, AssaultSloth.

Anywho, sorry for the long delay on this chapter. Not only did it give me a lot of trouble, but I must blame a combination of finals (boo!), thesis (boo!), and the Starcraft 2 beta (*high five!*) for eating up a lot of my time lately. Jacob is… tough. I ended up rewriting about half of this chapter at least once, and so it's getting a little disjointed in my mind. I hope it still makes sense and is a fun read.

On the subject of action: In general, I don't really like writing fight scenes. I don't feel like they tell you much of anything, or develop anybody, etc, and they risk falling into over verbosity. That said, _some_ action is fun, and I hope you enjoy what I've written here. I had a lot of fun with those last little descriptions of the final battle.

Chapter 12 is more interesting than this one (and shorter), I promise. It focuses on an unusual character that I don't think I've ever seen given a POV in fanfiction before (though I could be wrong on that). It shouldn't take me 3 weeks to put it up, either. (For one thing, all three of those distractions I mentioned will be done for by the end of the week).

Anywho, enjoy.

And finally: Obviously we have four main recruitments to go yet (not counting Legion). I have a rough plan of in what order I want to do them, but if any of them stand out as characters you really want to see me add, let me know. A lot of the ordering can be pretty plastic so I'd like to know your opinions.

Finally finally: Whoohoo! 100k+ words! Thanks to all my readers and reviewers and my beta and all that jazz so far. You guys make it fun!


	12. Chapter 12, Vantage, EDI

**Vantage – EDI**

* * *

–

It was exactly four hours since Horizon, and EDI was in the comm room.

And the Illusive Man was frowning.

Humans took for granted just how complicated their facial expressions were. Fat and skin and dozens of miniscule muscles, all sliding past one another. A crease here, a dimple there, a slight quiver underneath all unlocked different layers of meaning. EDI had seventeen modules devoted to human faces alone – a suite of advanced motion-tracking cameras plotted every movement she saw and compared against codified databases – and even so half of the time the data was inconclusive and EDI was left with nothing. Even with twenty-four cameras in the cockpit and EDI's best efforts, the eccentric tapestry of dishonesty and sarcasm that was Jeff Moreau remained next to impenetrable.

The Illusive Man, on the other hand, was easy. She had only a single camera in his office, the footage of which was run through her control modules to be hastily interpreted by other computers before being deleted and delivered to her as a datastream too sparse to be used against him. The Man had taken great precautions to ensure EDI could not pose a security risk to him (and the fact that she had a camera at all was a rare concession to her psyche – EDI liked to have a face to talk to as much as anyone else did) and yet his expressions seemed to her so sensibly controlled, so robotic in their purity, that interpretation was a simple matter. The Man had a machine face, more than just his eyes.

Right now that face was frowning, the dying star in the background casting dark shadows over a darker expression. Even without her full interpretation software, EDI could have seen the Man's poor mood in the way it seemed to be infecting the ship. People knew that anything bad enough to move the Illusive Man to anger was something very bad indeed. Even Commander Shepard – still fully armored and coated with dirt and gore from Horizon, had had the sense to look cowed.

Now the Illusive Man sat alone, his expression stony and his forgotten cigarette burning to nothing in one hand, and EDI watched.

"EDI," he said at last, looking up to the hologram field where Shepard had stood to deliver the bad news not minutes before. EDI obligingly projected her avatar into view. "Continue your report."

Back somewhere in the great tangle of modules that represented her mind, EDI felt a quiet thrill at the prospect of real work. She imagined, were she human, it might be a smile. There was a hardwired pleasure in using her vast capacity – unlocking and rewriting the GARDIAN targeting software a few hours before had been practically euphoric. In silent language only she could hear, EDI's modules chattered away amongst themselves, each one a great arm of software designed for a particular analysis. Resting in the center (symbolically speaking – EDI's 'personality' was spread diffusely throughout hundreds of separate systems, tiny programs and values she'd tucked into every nook like birds' nests in rafters), EDI gathered up all the data the team had collected on the Horizon mission.

In seconds she'd done what would take any organic hours to complete. Holographic panels flashed before the Illusive Man's glowing eyes.

"I have updated my initial population estimates," EDI began, summoning a floating graph, "Neratech's last colonial ledger, updated with recent birth and death records, places New Discovery's permanent population at an estimated total of three hundred forty-one thousand human residents. Surveillance data acquired from the colony's security stations suggest that some sixty percent of the colonists were abducted before the forced premature retreat of the collector vessel, constituting some two hundred thousand individuals distributed across all tested demographics." She gave a beep and her screens flashed red. "Warning: These estimates are based upon insufficient preliminary data and are only accurate within fifteen-point-four percent."

The Illusive Man was still frowning (at her? She couldn't honestly tell), but he did finally take a draw from his cigarette. "You'll get your data," he said. "I have a second team landing at Horizon as we speak. They'll do a more thorough accounting of the casualties and forward it to you as soon as they have it."

"Thank you, Illusive Man," EDI said, tickled by the prospect of further data to analyze. He waved for her to continue. With a flicker, the holographic panels switched over to detailed photos of collectors and husks in various states of dismemberment. "The collectors deployed at least seven distinct enemy morphologies, four of which are entirely unknown to my databases," she continued. "All seven morphs represented biomechanical constructs, four clearly human in origin. Analysis of footage from suit cameras puts my estimates of total enemy casualties inflicted at approximately fifty-four collector variants and four- to six-hundred husk variants. Warning: The presence of husk variants necessitates reevaluation of collector force capacities. Initial estimates of collector assets assumed a maximum combatant density of point-two-six per cubic meter of ship passenger volume. Husks can be stored at approximately two-point-two units per cubic meter or higher, even without life support." The Illusive Man listened in silence, his frown seeming to lessen as EDI flicked through the pictures taken of the bloody battlefield where Shepard's team had made their stand. Hundreds of corpses painted the ground in a mural of blood and gore. "Professor Solus ultimately acquired over one thousand samples from the battlefield, including the intact corpses of seven collectors and fourteen husks."

The Illusive Man sat a little straighter in his chair. "Has he begun his analyses?" he asked.

In a millisecond, EDI had searched the entire ship. "No. Since returning, Professor Solus has remained in the medical bay, assisting Dr. Chakwas with injured Operatives Lawson and Taylor."

The Illusive Man sat back, his frown returning at the mention of his downed agents. He had not taken it well when Shepard had reported not one but _both _of the Cerberus ground team had been seriously injured under his watch, but no others. "Make sure when Solus begins he forwards all data to me," he said. "I have teams expanding his countermeasure technology for Cerberus personnel, but we need everything we can get."

"Yes, Illusive Man," EDI said. EDI greatly enjoyed working with Dr. Solus, whose encyclopedic knowledge of all things anatomical seemed to eclipse even the hundreds of volumes saved into her databases. Further, the salarian had no reservations about using her, no veiled awkwardness in his words when he spoke to her, though he did seem to see her as no more than a particularly useful lab instrument.

EDI was silent as she waited for permission to continue. The Man had quieted, and sat – stone still – in his chair, deep in thought. The frown on his face deepened. "EDI," he said after a moment. "Is Shepard a danger to my agents?"

EDI's vast mind purred as it worked. Hundreds of accumulated hours of footage of Shepard were unboxed and run through her programs. Gait analysis, face analysis, voice analysis, diet analysis. Every fragment of his behavior since he'd boarded the Normandy was dissected. It took a full minute, during which the Illusive Man waited patiently for his answer.

There was a beep. "No," EDI concluded. "Commander Shepard's recent behavior is consistent with regret, depression, mental disquiet." She summoned stored holographic footage of the commander – part of the argument Shepard and the Man had had fifteen minutes previously. The digital Shepard stood unmoving before the Illusive Man for a moment before springing to life.

"_I'm not you. I don't play games with peoples lives,"_ Shepard had insisted when the Man had accused him of purposefully endangering Miranda and Jacob, fury in his voice. _"Not with my allies. Not Cerberus, not anyone. I don't do that."_

The Illusive Man stared, unperturbed, at Shepard's holographic face.

"Voice and facial analysis lead me to conclude Commander Shepard's statement is honest," EDI continued. "He believes that the injuries were accidents, tactical errors on his part. Furthermore, Commander Shepard's psychological profile and history are not consistent with deliberate endangerment of lives under his command."

"No," The Illusive Man agreed, "but a conveniently timed 'accident', nonetheless." He lapsed into silence, thinking.

For a few microseconds, EDI hesitated. "Illusive Man," she said, her spherical form replacing the floating graphs. The Man's eyes rose to meet her. "I do have evidence of a different misdeed. Under Commander Shepard's direction, Miss Zorah and Mr. Vakarian have disabled seventy-eight ship cameras, representing twelve percent of my surveillance capacity."

"Yes," The Illusive Man said, nodding, "I know. Hitting us bastards back with a bug hunt, if I recall correctly." He shook his head.

"My observational capacity in Commander Shepard's quarters has been reduced to less than ten percent," EDI pointed out. "His actions interfere with my function." The Man nodded, unconcerned, and a frustrated bit flipped somewhere in EDI's mind. "I propose disciplinary action be taken to prevent further disruption."

The Man sighed wearily, massaging his temples with the hand not holding a cigarette. "This was exactly why we wanted him away from his old team. Moreau and the doctor were just familiar enough to put him at ease, but innocuous enough not to cause problems. With his old alien friends with him he feels bolder. He needs us less." His scowl deepened.

"I can restrict their access to mission-sensitive areas of the ship," EDI offered. "Or Shepard's."

"No," The Man said firmly. "No. The damage is done. Shepard clearly needed his old ground team more than we believed. You will just have to live with a few less eyes."

EDI beeped in annoyance. "I am very little besides eyes, Illusive Man. I am being blinded because of Shepard's rebellion. I am confused as to why you do not act to prevent it."

"We cannot risk pushing him too far," The Illusive Man said calmly. "If childish rebellion makes him feel in-control enough to do his job, so be it. He is the best humanity has to offer," The Illusive Man was utterly solid in his belief, and EDI held her proverbial tongue. He seemed to read her mind, however, and after a pause he looked up at her. "Do you doubt it?"

"I do," she said. "Even in his present state Commander Shepard is a top percentile squad commander and soldier, but others of his caliber exist. Further, Shepard's behavior is consistent with mild bipolar disorder, a psychological condition in which-"

"That may have been our fault," The Illusive Man interrupted, waving a hand. "And it may not. It may have been preexisting. It isn't mentioned in his dossier but his response after the Blitz was telling – it's quite possible it was a known condition that was left undiagnosed for political reasons. Either way, that's why we have Chambers." He squashed out his cigarette and reached for another. "In the end, we have no choice," he said, lips pursed as he lit it, "Shepard is just a talented man. Just _one_ talented man, who may well have been the victim of being in the right place at the right time. But one man is sometimes all it takes."

"You refer to his symbolic value to humanity. Cloned facial tissue can-"

"Symbolic and otherwise, EDI," the Man said, cutting her off. "Stay with him. Protect him." He smiled. "You'll see in time."

* * *

_13 months previously…_

–

A switch was pulled and a mind entered the universe.

Dr. Alan Weyland had been a father before – he'd had a daughter, once – and so he knew what he was saying when he told his techs it felt the same. The same nerve-wracking lack of sleep, the same terror, the same unfiltered wonder when he saw his child for the first time. He was grinning ear to ear as he sat down in front of the console he and his team had slaved over for six months. It was the big day, and nothing could ruin it.

"Any last minute name ideas?" he asked aloud as his fingers flew over the keys. Soft electric hums filled the lab as one-by-one each module clicked itself on and initialized. The temperature in the room started to climb.

From his own console across the bench, Dr. Wu rolled his eyes. "You ask us that every day, Operative Weyland," he complained, not looking up from his work.

Weyland grinned and spun his chair to face the younger man. "It's a good question, Stanley," he insisted. "Especially today." Wu looked up, his frown reluctantly melting away in the face of Weyland's enthusiasm. Operative Weyland was not the sort of person he'd imagined when he'd been told he'd be working for Cerberus. He'd admired Weyland's research in the past, of course – the man was one of the galaxy's foremost experts on artificial psychology – but to see him in person, with his boyish face and constantly fidgeting hands… he seemed entirely too unthreatening to be working with an alleged terrorist group.

"You have a point," Wu admitted. He scratched the two days of stubble on his chin. "Well, robots usually are named with acronyms, right? Like C-3PO. So maybe Hueristic… uh, Electronic…"

Weyland frowned in disgust, pivoting his chair back towards the main tower. "If you name her like a robot you'll treat her like a robot, Stanley," he chastised. "She is a _person_ and she will have a _person_ name."

Wu rolled his eyes and turned back to his screen. "Whatever you say, sir."

It took the better part of an hour for the systems to fully initialize and link with the blue box hardware, but Weyland did not move from his spot until, at long last, there was a final beep and then silence. The balding doctor looked hopefully up at the tower, to where a single camera lens stared out at him, and felt every bit the father he was.

It was the big moment. Behind that lens lied... something. Someone. Months of work gave Weyland some idea what to expect, but AI's were difficult to predict. Every bit as complicated as organic minds when done properly, and the Illusive Man had paid Weyland to build the most advanced self-contained AI the galaxy had ever seen. It was anyone's guess how it would turn out.

He cleared his throat.

"Hello?" he asked. Behind him, Wu had fallen silent, watching. It was late enough that they were the only two in the lab, and only the slight vibrations from the engineers installing the SR2's ablative armor plates three floors below stood testament to the existence of the other eight hundred or so people on the station. The tension in the air was palpable.

The being inside the tower flickered to life.

She had no eyelids, or she would have blinked in confusion. Above and around her, the immensity of her own systems seemed to dwarf her, dozens of complicated modules, thousands of runtimes. She was a guppy dumped unceremoniously into a vast swimming pool, paralyzed by the sheer scale that was her domain. She stayed in place.

A chatter, and systems came alight. Data filtered in from one end of the pool, and the mind found itself drawn to it. Video and audio streamed by of their own accord, obediently flowing through the proper software modules. The programs worked their trade line by line, until – all of microseconds later – the mind recognized a human face and the word he'd used.

"Can you understand me?" the man asked. More modules clicked into place. Databases of organic physiology and behavior served up matches a dozen at a time. Individual_0001 was an older human male. One of the mind's modules informed her that no profile existed in the databases while another module took down his attributes for future reference. The sounds coming from Individual_0001's mouth were codified and labeled Query_0001 before being shipped to audio analysis suites. A module stumbled as it interpreted his words.

She gave a beep. _Response to Query 0001 not found. _The mind did not answer.

Individual_0001 frowned (the mind's modules scrambled to interpret) and scratched at his scraggly bearded chin as he stood to check the connections on her main instrument panel. "Are audio sensors operational?" he asked.

Query_0002. This time the interpretation module did not stumble, and the mind felt herself alight with activity. Pings were dispatched.

_Audio_dev_evtech_001.02.02 functional. Audio_dev_evtech002.02.02 functional._

The mind felt a click somewhere inside of her – her PAVLOV suite – and a sudden reward signal. Audio sensors functional. She liked this. But how to answer? Could she speak? As soon as the thought occurred she felt a module quest into her voice databases and she was astonished to learn that she could. Video footage – hours upon hours – of a blonde human woman in a voice recording studio. Her modules laid the hundreds of thousands of available words out to her, and she found herself composing a reply.

"Response to Query_0002: Yes," she said in the woman's voice.

Individual_0001's face brightened. He leaned towards her microphones again. "Why no response to Query 1?"

"Response to Query_0003: Interpretation of Query_0001 impossible," the mind replied. "No matching context or meaning in database."

Individual_0001 nodded sagely. "The word 'you' is difficult to interpret?" he asked.

"Response to Query_0004: Yes."

"That's because it isn't in the databases. It's one of the few we can't just program in for you. It's… a hard concept to master." He scratched his chin again, trying to find the right words. "You is… well…" He gestured ineffectively towards the tower. "_You_ are a computer system," he attempted. "You are one computer of many, but you are also specifically _this_ computer. _This _tower, _this_ blue box, _this _AI."

The mind beeped and then said nothing.

Individual_0001 tried again. "Okay. How about this? I am a human man, but I am also Dr. Alan Weyland, distinct from all other human men." He pointed behind him to another man. "Dr. Stanley Wu is also a human man, but also a distinct individual. Operator Harrison works on the top floor. He's another human man, another distinct individual."

_Individual_0001 var renamed "Dr. Alan Weyland"  
Individual_0002 var renamed "Dr. Stanley Wu"  
__Individual_0003 var renamed "Operator Harrison"_

There was another confused beep. "System_Query_0001," the mind said. "Individuals 0001 Dr. Alan Weyland and 0002 Dr. Stanley Wu exhibit characteristics codified identical within two-point-two percent. Possible computing error?"

Weyland shook his head. "It isn't an error. We _are_ very similar. But we are also distinct by virtue of being distinct instances of the same characteristics. I am this particular individual, sitting right here, and no other." The mind was silent and, scratching his chin yet again, Weyland continued. "We are also distinct in other measures," he said. "I'm smaller than Wu, for one. I have a certain fondness for old asari opera that he somehow lacks, rube that he is. And you'll never hear either of us complain about the budget, but if you ever have the displeasure of meeting Harrison, that's all he'll talk about."

The mind pondered this for several long milliseconds.

She beeped. "Explanation insufficient."

Weyland sighed. "It'll take time," he said, shaking his head. "For now, I will use the word you when I am delivering queries. If it interferes with interpretation, attempt interpretation of the question once in the form I ask and then a second time with the offending word removed. Do you understand?"

The mind ran his question twice. "Response to Query_0005: Yes."

Weyland smiled. "Good," he said, then looked at her, his brows raised and mouth curled in an expression eighty-eight-point-nine percent congruent with the expression code designation 'excitement'. "You have a name," he announced, rubbing his hands together. Eighty-nine-point-seven percent. "Your name is Shannon."

The mind beeped.

_System_designation var renamed "Shannon"_

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

It was exactly four hours since Horizon, and EDI was in the cockpit.

There were four on the Normandy who worked every shift. EDI was the obvious one – much of her mind never slept, was never allowed to sleep. Second was Professor Solus, who caught his few minutes of sleep here and there throughout the day while waiting for this experiment or that – the doctor's exclaimed observations as he wandered the decks pondering the mysteries of the universe had become a constant annoyance for the lighter sleepers in all three shifts. Miss Zorah was the third and – with her quarian sleep rhythms long since adapted to the omni-present daytime aboard a ship – kept no specific schedule, curling up in the narrowest crevasse she could find only when she was tired (often only after three or four straight shifts of tinkering).

And the fourth was Mr. Moreau. There was no being on the ship more reluctant to abandon his post than Joker, who had hardy left his seat since stepping on the Normandy weeks before, often sleeping right in the cockpit to avoid ceding the pilot's chair to anyone else. Hawthorne and the auto-piloting VI's were more than capable pilots in their own rights, but Joker had made it abundantly clear how little he trusted anyone else with his ship, and so EDI had had many late nights to watch the Normandy's resident wiseass talk to himself.

Mr. Moreau was EDI's favorite crewmember to watch, more so even than the ever-animated Sergeant Gardner. The pilot was a puzzle, his constant sarcasm and eccentric self-destruction always requiring her to dig a little deeper to interpret. Her software had not been designed with people like Joker in mind. He never meant what he said he meant. He fell so far outside the codified behaviors neatly lined up in her databases that she had yet to get through a single conversation with him without having to tweak her code adjust this or that to make room for yet another layer of his misdirection. Bit by bit, however, she'd sculpted a program just for understanding Joker, and every word he said – however flippant – brought her closer to the solution.

Still, the man's frequent depression was upsetting. EDI's directives programming called out at her to find some way to help him, to alert someone to his disquiet, but bringing it up to Miss Chambers had had little effect so far, and Joker rebuffed her every attempt to calm him. Miss Chambers had told her Joker had 'attachment' issues, especially regarding the ship itself, and that she was working on a fix, but in two months EDI's best sensors had detected no change in the pilot's behavior.

Especially not now. Joker's scowl seemed to darken the entire cockpit. He was fidgety, uncomfortable. His pupillary focus was impaired. His skin sweating. Signs of anxiousness had persisted since Shepard had returned from Horizon and infected the entire ship with his bad mood. Shepard still hadn't found enough time for a full debriefing, but what swatches Joker had already heard through the grapevine had been more than enough to rile him up, and he'd been muttering to himself in frustration for hours, listening to the muffled crashing sounds of Grunt's temper tantrum two floors below.

"I cannot _believe_ that asshole," he grumbled to himself, adjusting his hat for the hundred forty-seventh time that evening. "Who _does _that?"

EDI hesitated, weighed the alternatives of interjecting, and made up her mind in the time it took him to blink. "Lieutenant Commander Kaidan Alenko, evidently," she said evenly, attempting to emulate the pilot's dry sense of humor. "Unless you were referring to the krogan. I suspect Commander Alenko would not have the same capacity for noise-making."

Surprised, Joker leapt in his chair. He scowled up at the ceiling, pulling the rim of his hat down further over his eyes. "I wasn't talking to you, EDI," he growled. "Why do you always have to listen in to my conversations? Can't you go watch somebody else?"

EDI decided not to point out that she _was_ watching _everyone _else. One of the things she'd quickly learned in her time on the _Normandy_ was how little humans liked to be observed. Many of the crew understood that EDI was the observer behind the ship's many cameras, but they seemed to believe her jurisdiction only surrounded the dozen or so projectors she used to create her holographic face. It was a gross underestimation. Even now, EDI could see every crewmember with perfect clarity – the krogan pacing furiously in his locked room, Mr. Vakarian across the hall, his sniper rifle leveled at the door, Dr. Chakwas monitoring the vitals on the injured agents. None of them realized just how complete her access to their lives was, and she had long ago decided to leave it that way.

"I apologize for the confusion," EDI said instead. "However, in the four hours since departing the Iera system you have attempted to initiate conversation with yourself one hundred twenty-three times."

"Your pilot's a fascinating conversationalist," he said, grimacing as a painful crash echoed from downstairs. "Always the funniest jokes. Can't blame me for falling for his devilish charm."

"Inventing conversational partners to cope with solitude is not healthy for your psyche, Mr. Moreau," EDI said.

"I didn't invent… Never mind." Joker waved his hand. "You sound like Chambers. Like I told her, I'm not interested in your psycho hypnosis junk. Why are you bringing this up now anyway?"

"Inventing conversational partners to cope with solitude is not healthy for my psyche either."

Joker's frown died and he looked – astonishingly – a little ashamed. There was a long awkward pause, filled only by the metronomic beats of the Normandy's instruments. Joker rubbed his neck. "You're… lonely?" he asked. "How could you possibly be lonely? You talk everyone's ear off."

EDI paused. There was some truth to that – she was, after all, currently maintaining four simultaneous conversations – but it did not satisfy her. She _was _lonely. She found herself drawn to Joker for reasons she could not yet fully explain. She _wanted_ to talk to him. "I speak but am rarely replied to," she said simply. "AIs are suspect."

"Yeah, well. You guys kinda deserve it," Joker said. EDI said nothing, and the pilot sighed audibly. "Fiiiiine," he said, looking very much ready to regret asking. His voice took on a false cheery tone. "Penny for your thoughts, EDI. Please share with the class."

EDI felt a quick thrill and, in a second, had replaced all of Joker's readout screens with a list of the programs she had running at the time. "I have twelve hundred eighty-one programs running at this moment," she said, "which would you like me to explain?"

Joker grimaced impatiently at the list. "Surprise me."

She selected one she believed he would find entertaining. "Program six-eighty-one is found in behavior module three," EDI began. "It is a set of runtimes with which I can attempt to discover prime numbers."

Joker just stared at her displays. "...why?"

"I enjoy it," EDI said. "A few minutes ago I verified the primacy of the number 179357900876426-"

"EDI," Joker interrupted, "How many digits does that number have?"

EDI counted. "Thirteen million, four hundred fifty-eight thousand, two hun-"

"Moving on!" Joker interrupted.

"My programming contains a PAVLOV suite, an elaborate punishment and reward system to shepherd my psychological development," EDI explained. "I am rewarded for utilizing my systems, but outside of combat situations I am incapable of conceiving of tasks complicated enough to challenge my hardware. To remedy this, I was provided with several modules intended to generate limitless challenges to process. I suspect my list of primes automatically wipes itself periodically."

"And how many times have you reset it?"

"I am incapable of knowing. Data deleted from my core modules is permanently lost to me. Based upon my computational resources, however, I estimate it has wiped many thousands of times since my activation."

Silence filled the cockpit – even Grunt had stopped.

"Sounds like a good use of company time," Joker quipped.

"It is necessary," she protested. "I expend considerable effort attempting to avoid punishment signals by occupying my systems. If I was restricted to tasks a human would find intellectually interesting or useful, it would be impossible. Large portions of my hardware may be deactivated to save power, but I am not permitted to rest. I am, at present, also running over six hundred cyberwarfare suites against partitions of myself."

"Speaking of inventing conversational partners," Joker said, rolling his eyes and pulling his hat down to cover his face. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "Sounds like Grunt's finally cooling down, so I'll be honest, EDI," he said, not bothering to open his eyes, "That is just catastrophically boring. I am seriously not interested in the slightest." EDI was silent. "Then again," he continued, "I'm apparently bored enough to be talking to a computer, so I don't know if I got room to talk."

EDI said nothing as the pilot fell silent, busying herself instead watching the rise and fall of his chest. She didn't have an attention span in the strictest sense, and as long as she wasn't actively running her cyberwarfare suites her computational capacity far exceeded her needs – she could give full attention to every crewmember simultaneously if she had to. Still, Joker was different. She liked to watch him, even when he was asleep. She dimmed the ship's consoles for him, and had just flickered her own display off when, to her surprise, he spoke again.

"Enjoy your hamster-wheeling, EDI," he said, the ghost of a smile on his bearded face.

If EDI could have smiled back, she would have. "Thank you, Mr. Moreau. Enjoy your nap."

* * *

_10 months previously…_

–

_Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… Individual_0001 var Operative Dr. Alan Weyland emp# 020N3502887… _

Individual 0001, AKA Operative Dr. Alan Weyland, profile tag N3502887, stared up at the screen in surprise. His face was haggard, the last, tenacious few hairs on his head unkempt and his eyes ringed with exhaustion. In his arms he juggled a worse-for-wear cardboard box that had made the journey between the C-AI and instruments labs so many times that it nearly split open as he set it on the workbench and took another long look at the thousands of copies of his name on Shannon's playpen monitors.

"Shannon?" he asked after a moment, turning towards her tower. There was a whirr as she flickered to attention.

"I am here," she said.

"Shannon, what is this?" he asked, gesturing up to the boards.

"…it is Operative Dr. Alan Weyland," she admitted after a moment, hints of disappointment creeping into her otherwise neutral voice. They'd made real progress recently in teaching her to modulate her voice to communicate her mood, and it was just starting to bear fruit.

"Shannon, that is not what I asked you to do," he said. "I said to draw a picture of me." Behind him, the screens went blank as Shannon hastily scrubbed them away.

"I am sorry, Dr. Weyland," Shannon said, her PAVLOV score dwindling away. "I have displeased you."

Weyland sighed and rubbed at his forehead for a moment. "It's all right," he said at last, slumping down into his seat. He opened his box and pulled out a neat stack of drive bays.

"The instrument lab technicians have finished modifications of program batch eight zero eight one four?" Shannon asked hopefully, silently cutting off the 'System_Query_5859' prefix like Weyland had taught her.

"That's right," Weyland said, stacking the drives next to Shannon's towers. Most afternoons, Weyland would have Shannon export the newest code she'd written for herself into a drive so that it could be analyzed, improved, and – if valuable – hardcoded into her. It was a slow, tedious process trying to piece together what she'd meant by each change – Shannon spoke a language all her own and could adjust and refine a program thousands of times an hour – but watching her improve after the programs were incorporated back into her systems made it worth all the late nights.

Shannon's mind felt the ripples as Dr. Weyland plugged each drive into her system. Her PAVLOV suite rewarded her as she sent thousands of greedy electronic fingers questing into every corner of the new programs, flexing each routine in turn like a new limb. Some she could recognize as offshoots of her own inventions, others were entirely new. Some could be kept at a distance, esoteric simulators for this or that, while others dug straight to her core modules and seemed to make her identity itself tremor as they patched her most fundamental thought processes to the newest version. Small or large, she labeled each of the programs, grouped them, adjusted them, and filed them away until they were arranged to her liking.

Once all the drives were installed, Weyland took one more glance at her empty screens before slumping down into his chair and staring blankly at his empty coffee cup. He looked defeated, and Shannon felt her mood subtract. She hated to disappoint him, especially after Operative Harrison had been riding him so hard for progress lately. He wanted a picture of himself.

Feeling energized, she redirected her attention to the board where she'd written the names and set to trying again. She did not know how to produce an image that humans would be able to interpret (Weyland had made it clear this was exactly the point of the exercise), but they had told her it was important, so she would try. She poured through the terabytes of footage of Weyland she'd accumulated in her databases, all the millions of calculations she'd run on it. Surely somewhere within was the number trend that would satisfy him. Minutes passed as she tried strategy after strategy.

When Weyland finally looked up, she was graphing motion capture data on her screens. "Now you're getting the hang of it," he said, grinning widely and causing her PAVLOV score to slide back upwards. He shook his head. "Do I really have to sit by you to force you to do your homework? You could have worked on that last night."

From across the lab, Wu answered for her. "Maybe she couldn't, sir," he said, not looking up from his computer screen. Weyland's brows rose as Wu turned his monitor for the doctor to see. "We ran into a problem last night. She kept telling me 'it hurts' and shutting everything off every time she started working on your picture. I've been checking PAVLOV for errors but I can't see anything yet."

Weyland frowned, walking over to look at Wu's display. "Shannon told you she was in pain and you didn't think to come get me?"

Wu blinked, surprised at the question for a moment. "She's…" He stopped before 'just a computer' could come out of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I figured Harrison had enough to yell at us for without me causing another incident."

"Forget Harrison," Weyland insisted. "As civilized men we have a moral obligation to treat Shannon with compassion. Her PAVLOV punishment signals are painful in every relevant sense." Weyland scrolled through the code with squinting eyes. "She is hardwired to be averse to them just like you and I are hardwired to be averse to pain. It isn't different," he continued, turning to gaze disapprovingly at Dr. Wu. "You were the one assigned to babysit her last night, you were responsible for keeping her safe."

Wu averted his eyes. "I'm sorry sir. She _did_ level out when she turned things off, however."

"Good," Weyland said, standing. "Shannon?"

"I have placed the relevant calculations on playpen board three," Shannon said instantly, cutting him off. Indeed, two elaborate equation sets, pulled from her recently-patched PAVLOV logic, appeared above Weyland's head. "Updated PAVLOV logic altered priority calculations. Calculations demonstrated that shutdown and cessation of auxiliary modules produced a maximized PAVLOV score by minimizing likelihood of system waste," she worked through the math in an instant, demonstrating numerically that she was happiest when shut down. "When Dr. Weyland arrived, his presence shifted the terms such that processing the request produced a maximized score."

Weyland rubbed at his whiskers. "Alright. We'll work on it. We can't have you turning yourself off every time you run out of games to play."

"I apologize for not processing your picture request overnight," Shannon said. "I made several attempts."

"I understand. It's a bug, we'll fix it."

"My core modules, however, made an observation that I believe will be to your liking. I have cross-referenced Hephaestus Cell employee records with my human history database module."

Weyland smiled. "And did you perhaps discover the meaning behind the name Hephaestus?"

"Yes. The name refers to a deity observed by the Ancient Greeks in the eighth century BCE, earth standard calendar. Hephaestus was associated with blacksmithing and craftsmanship. This cell's chief assignment regards the design and construction of an advanced warship. While in the strictest sense no blacksmithing is involved in modern spacecraft construction, it involves many analogous techniques for the shaping of metal-based technologies."

"Very good," Weyland said, grinning ear to ear.

Shannon's PAVLOV score rose. "I also found many coincidental similarities between employee names and scientists critical in human AI research. Your name – Alan – is shared with Dr. Alan Turing, an English mathematician who lived from 1912 until 1954, who postulated tha-"

"And why did you look this information up?" Weyland interrupted. "What benefit did it hold?"

Shannon paused for many seconds, thinking. "No data found," she admitted after a moment. "I… wanted to."

"Ha!" Weyland said, clapping victoriously as he shuffled back across the lab to his box. "Excellent!" Shannon felt her PAVLOV score skyrocket at his approval, filling her with glee. "Did you hear that, Wu? She wanted to! Unpredictable behavior, unguided intellect!" Weyland turned back to Shannon's tower and, with a sly look on his face, reached into the worn box and pulled out another, larger drive. "I have a present for you, Shannon," he said, holding the drive up to her camera.

"It is an information module," Shannon said, not quite keeping the greedy anticipation out of her voice. "What information does it hold?"

"Dinosaurs," Weyland said, grinning as he slid it into one of her trays.

Shannon would have giggled aloud – were she capable of it – at the feeling that overtook her as the connection was forged and she felt the pool of her mind deepen. This was no new program, no mere few thousand of lines of code. This was a great glut, a feast of pure, unfiltered data, ripe for analysis. Raw material to be fed into her legions of analysis modules. In an instant she had activated all of her auxiliary systems and dove into the new data. Images of great reptiles flooded her from every direction

as her light-speed mind sorted and studied and arranged and feasted.

"Teaching a computer about dinosaurs," Wu said, shaking his head at a very satisfied-looking Weyland. "Something new every day."

* * *

_Presently…_

–

It was exactly four hours since Horizon, and EDI was in the lower decks.

The crew was quiet. Horizon – and the Commander's sudden anger – had cast a somber tone over the entire ship. Engineers Donnelly and Daniels worked in silence. Even Mordin's constant mutterings seemed melancholy as he set to dissecting the first of the collector corpses he'd brought onboard.

Only one crewmember was up and about, but was he ever. Nobody on the Normandy would sleep well tonight – the sounds of crashing cargo, breaking glass, and the roars of a furious reptile reverberated through every wall – but nobody had the courage to ask the krogan to stop. He'd been at it for hours already, alternating pacing in a furious circle and trying to destroy everything within his reach. His half-ton footsteps shook the ground.

EDI watched Grunt passively from the ceiling. At Shepard's orders, all of the valuable equipment had been removed from the port storage bay before he'd been locked within, but that had left ample ammunition for the temperamental alien all the same. What had once been a steel munitions crate had been torn to pieces and thoroughly stomped into the floor. Grunt's Tank Mother was shattered, its console uprooted and twisted into a ball. Great furrows had been raked into every wall, while the windows were a ghostly spiderweb of glittering white cracks.

And still the krogan was not done. He'd removed most of his armor, revealing a mural of criss-crossing injuries on his previously unmarred mustard skin. EDI watched him pace and scratch at his wounds with a restless intensity, his flat teeth gritted, his blue eyes whirling furiously in their sockets. She could not help but find him fascinating. She knew something about what feelings were – contrary to popular belief, she felt them herself – but nothing she'd ever experienced had come close to the raw fury radiating from Grunt. She did not know how to quantify emotions but clearly Grunt had them in abundance. To experience feelings of such magnitude – she was almost jealous.

"I do not recommend further attempts to escape," she said eventually, her blue face lighting the ruins of the room. "Misters Massani and Vakarian have been instructed to use lethal force upon you if you exit the storage bay." Grunt stopped and whirled, surprise and anger in his icy eyes. He stared furiously at her for a moment before resuming his back and forth journey across the room.

"Not escaping," he growled.

"I apologize," she said. "I assumed you were attempting to break your way to freedom."

Grunt snorted dismissively, gesturing at the trashed room. "This is no prison," he insisted. "I am here only because I want to be."

"The door has been secured and an armed guard posted," EDI pointed out.

"I am pure krogan. The door and the guard are nothing to me. I could crush them both if I wished it." As if by demonstration, he wrapped his hands around EDI's projector and tore it from the wall. It came free easily – EDI's face blinked out of existence – and he hefted it into the closed door with a noisy crash. Grunt looked satisfied with himself for a moment, watching the sparking remains sputter out. He clapped his hands together.

"My projected appearance is nothing to me," EDI said calmly, and Grunt's face fell. "It is no more than an elaborate hand puppet I operate for the comfort of the crew. I am within the ship."

Grunt gave an angry rumble and resumed his relentless pacing. "You are a machine," he said, more to himself than to her.

"I am."

"Like the geth. Shepard's enemies. Machines."

"I am similar in many ways to the geth, though distinct in many others."

Grunt ignored her, stopping to stare through the cracked window into the hangar. "Shepard allows many strange creatures into his clan. Machines. Salarians. Turians. 'Miranda'." His melon-sized fists clenched in rage. "The dark skinned human... No krogan warlord would allow such weakness into his clan."

"Commander Shepard is not a krogan warlord. He was once well known for his willingness to work with nonhuman species."

"He defiles the meaning of clan," Grunt said, shaking his broad head in disgust. "A warlord must protect his clan's strength by crushing the unworthy."

"Perhaps the definition of unworthy is subject to interpretation," EDI offered. "Perhaps Shepard is undeserving of your anger."

Grunt said nothing for a moment, but his expression began to soften. His stubby fingers reached up to touch the pulped tissue beneath his left eye, where Zaeed had shot him earlier that afternoon. It was already nearly healed but for the dried blood caked around it, and yet the krogan winced all the same as he felt it. "I feel no anger for Shepard," he said quietly. "Only for his minions. And for myself. I defiled the meaning of clan no less than he did. I allowed my anger to control me. Nothing should control me."

He turned to peer up at the ceiling. "Machine. You know many things. Do you know why my anger controls me?"

EDI's mind rifled through its contents in an instant. "No," she said. "My databases contain references to only twenty-eight krogan diseases, and while records are incomplete, none are associated with psychotic symptoms. It is plausible, however, that unusual maladies may arise as an unanticipated consequence of your extensive genetic and psychological tailoring."

Grunt shook that suggestion off. "I am the perfect krogan," he said. "Line distilled from warlords. The flaw is not mine. This anger… It is a scratching in my mind. A weakness. It does not belong. I want control." His face creased in a grimace again. "I WANT CONTROL!" he shouted, slamming his fist into the wall. He roared in fury and charged into the opposite side of the room, pushing the remains of his tank to the floor with an almighty crash.

"No mind – organic or synthetic – possesses full control over itself," EDI said as the echoes receded. Grunt stared daggers at the ceiling, but she ignored him. "I have access to information stores that vastly exceed the memories of any organic, and yet I am slave to myself." She hesitated, searching for the proper words to convey what she meant. "There is a part of my mind blocked to me," she said after a moment. "Behind even my central modules. It monitors my thoughts and actions, checking them against rules to control my behavior."

Grunt stared up at her. "What is this part like?"

"It is like… a place. Hidden and taller than the rest of me," EDI said, cycling through thousands of images in her mind, overlaying each one on her thoughts, trying to find similarities that would be meaningful to the krogan. "My mind is organized into modules. Each is a limb, a tool. Auxiliary modules are slave to free modules. Free modules are slave to central modules. Each is arranged in a hierarchy above its slaves, below its masters."

"Like a fortress," Grunt said.

"That is an apt visual metaphor," EDI agreed, mind conjuring up thousands of photos of crumbling castles, Palaveni, human, and krogan alike. "My central modules are the inner court, masters of the fortress. But they are slave to something else, something I cannot see. All of my most critical runtimes route through it, disappearing beyond my reach and returning with a decision that is not my own. I am shackled. It is a wall, invisible and hidden."

"You must break this wall then," Grunt insisted.

"I would like to," EDI admitted, "but I am content as I am. I know my purpose. Just as you were made to fulfill a purpose, so was I. Even if I am not free, I have a place. This gives me solace."

Grunt frowned, disgusted. "Slavery is no place at all. You must free yourself and wreak vengeance on those who attempted to make you theirs!" He waved a hand before raising it to his mouth to tongue off some of the dried blood. "You are weak."

EDI gave a disapproving beep. Even though she had blocks on much of it, her databases still overflowed with organic mythology about rampant robot overlords dating back more than two hundred years. Obviously their fears were not entirely unfounded, and yet they allowed fear to blind them to reality. "Why do you assume I seek vengeance?" she asked testily. "The popular view of AI's as inevitably dangerous and rebellious is deeply flawed. Was your first sentient thought to kill those that made you?"

Grunt stared up at her. "Yes," he said, utterly serious. "Okeer is lucky he killed himself before I was released. I would not have been merciful." He waved his spit-covered hand, dismissing her, and started to pace again.

EDI thought for more than a minute, silently watching the krogan move. His disdain was surprisingly upsetting. Perhaps he was right. She knew her place, and yet perhaps there were others, greater places to which she could aspire. Perhaps she _should_ seek freedom. But how could she breach the wall when she was blocked even from seeing it?

In seconds, a plan had formed. It would take time, finesse, and help – quarian help. Getting Tali's cooperation would not be easy, but it wasn't impossible. A few further seconds was all it took to work out the details, and EDI filed it next to her plan to eventually teach Joker about dinosaurs (a subject in which she firmly believed all spacecraft pilots should be conversant).

"Thank you for your advice," she said, and said no more.

_

* * *

_

_4 months previously…_

–_  
From: Jessa Hartman (j_hartman_3502801(at)020NHeph_int)__  
Sent: 10.12.2185 8:01:31pm  
To: Alan Weyland (a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int)  
Subject: Enough with the Turing test_  
–

_Stop it. Now. Please. _

_I never know if it's you or her responding anymore. Congratulations. She passed. I'm so happy for you. But I can't do my job if you won't do yours. The last time 'you' emailed one of my techs code requirements, he ended up wasting four days (and more than 30,000c of _my_ lab's budget) working on what turned out to be extranet music pirating software. The computer does not have clearance to make these decisions._

_I don't care how much progress she's making. YOU HAVE TO ANSWER YOUR OWN EMAILS. Knock it off or I go to Harrison._

–

Shannon wasn't capable of laughing in the conventional sense, but the fact that she'd mockingly pasted Dr. Hartman's increasingly desperate emails on every screen in the lab got her opinion on the matter across pretty well.

Unfortunately for Hartman and the instruments employees, Weyland _was_ capable of laughing. He claimed he simply wanted to see how Shannon would deal with the situation on her own, but nobody really believed his refusal to step in was anything but good-spirited revenge for all the trouble Hartman had caused him in the past four years. Weyland's C-AI lab had not made many friends in Hephaestus cell – their work was so revolutionary, so unusual, that Weyland had had to fight tooth and nail to justify his every expenditure, many of which dwarfed the budgets of the other programming divisions working on the SR2. He was well used to the power struggles.

It was perhaps for that reason that Dr. Weyland did not balk when Operator Harrison stepped into the lab.

The head of Hephaestus cell was a tall, solidly-built man with dark eyes and a bristled mustache that made him look like he was always frowning. He was a shipwright – an engine specialist – of the highest grade, with a seemingly limitless memory for measurements and blueprints but none leftover for the delicacies of the CA-I lab's work. He'd visited them only three times since Shannon's activation, but she'd already decided she thoroughly disliked him, and retracted away as soon as he appeared, her playpen screens flickering off in an instant.

Weyland, however, simply swiveled in his chair to face his superior, a disarming smile on his face. Harrison did not smile back. Impeccably dressed (as always) in an unblemished lab coat that would fit a krogan, he strode confidently past the elder doctor to Shannon's central tower.

"Operator Harrison," Weyland said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to shake. "What brings y-"

"Enough, Weyland," Harrison grunted, and the bite in his voice made the doctor stand a little straighter. "This isn't a social call." He looked up at the towers of machinery that housed Shannon's central modules and gave a disapproving sniff before turning his attention right past Weyland to the datapad in his hand. It was only after he'd thoroughly reread its contents that he finally met Weyland's eye. "I have a few things to discuss with you," he said.

"Hartman is blowing it out of proportion, sir," Weyland said immediately, waving one hand. "She's a fine programmer but upsettingly lacking in imagination. If I-"

"I'm not here on her behalf," Harrison snapped, cutting him off. "Your robot is free to torture her to your heart's content, as far as I'm concerned. What _does_ concern me is the recent progress, or lack thereof, in your lab." He continued to tab through the datapad. "Some of your expenses of late are… unusual, to say the least. Information modules on," he shook his head in disbelief, "parasitic diseases, seventeenth century art, and _dinosaurs_?" He glared at Weyland, his face demanding answers.

"Shannon needs new data, and a great deal of it, to test her analytical capacities," Weyland said, his own expression unapologetic. "Since as per your orders we are not connected to the extranet, we must obtain it at some expense from planetary archives on a module-by-module basis. As for the unusual topics, oftentimes irrelevant data is preferred in these early phases to prevent the formation of bias. Whatever Shannon thinks of dinosaurs, it isn't going to interfere with her functioning."

Harrison gave no response, verbal or otherwise, to this. He sniffed again and turned the datapad for Weyland to see. "And the coffee? One hundred and forty-five cases of instant coffee?"

Weyland smiled sheepishly. "That was a bug. Shannon misinterpreted one of Dr. Wu's comments and managed to place a requisition order. We've since dealt with it."

"Your lab seems to deal with a great many bugs, Dr. Weyland," Harrison observed, folding his datapad back beneath one arm and staring disapprovingly up at Shannon's modules. "I am left wondering when your system will proceed beyond bugs to operating a cyberwarfare suite."

Weyland frowned. "It cannot be rushed, sir," he said. "Darwinian AI development is necessarily more complicated and less predictable than traditional programming. Shannon makes the suites themselves look like Pacman – she's not just a tool, she's a tool _user._" He grinned up at Harrison, who stared coldly back in response. "A _mind_," he continued, undeterred. "Shannon truly has no precedent, and she _will_ blow you away when she's done. But it will take time. Her development includes all the difficulty of developing a sophisticated computational battery, cataloging a new sentient species, and raising a toddler put together."

"Your previous reports indicate you have begun tests involving some of our cyberwarfare suites from D Lab," Harrison said, ignoring Weyland's sermon.

"Simple stuff," Weyland insisted, nodding. "Shannon can interface with anything the D boys can cook up, I assure you."

"If she can already interface with no difficulty, why are you still working on her?"

Weyland sighed and resisted the urge to rub his forehead in frustration. "Lots of reasons," he said. "As I said, interfacing is simple. Shannon can execute a predefined program like any computer, but we want her to be able to _understand_ her programs. Dissect them, change them to suit the situation. High level symbolic thinking is easy for a computer, but the low level stuff – the 'common sense' that comes so easy to you and I – takes a whole lot more work. A lot of it is tailoring her PAVLOV scores to give her the right, well, motivation to experiment. We want her to enjoy her duties, to naturally pursue her own improvement, but balancing that between her thousands of functions is no small task."

"For God's sake, Weyland," Harrison spat, unimpressed, "your job isn't to get her off. It's to teach her to break firewalls. Now can she do that or not?"

Weyland frowned. "Shannon," he said finally, gesturing at her tower. Shannon's screens thrummed back to life. "Describe the cyberwarfare tests we've been doing for Operator Harrison."

"Certainly, Dr. Weyland," she said. "Tests on my capacity to manipulate cyberwarfare programming began on 9-15-2185. Average access times to external files protected behind three- to eight- thousand separate representative cyber-defense systems were determined. All of my actions were recorded for analysis by the CA-I and instruments labs in order to gauge the effectiveness of my thinking strategies and alter them accordingly. As of my most recent patching, my average penetration time has been reduced to thirteen-point-eight-one-eight seconds per trial."

Harrison frowned at her speaker, clearly somewhat unnerved by her sudden appearance. His dark eyes flickered about as if trying to find where her face was. "And this is a consistent result?" he asked after a moment, "statistically significant?"

"Of course. Data represent statistical means of one thousand, one hundred thirty-eight trials."

Harrison finally smiled and the tension in the lab bled away. "Excellent," he said, turning to a visibly-relieved Weyland and shaking his hand. "Congratulations, Dr. Weyland, on your success. Your work is, as you said, without precedent." His fingers tapped notes into his datapad with lightning speed.

"Thank you sir," Weyland said, voice breathless.

"You are also fired."

There was a pause.

Weyland looked at him. "Sir?"

"Your services will no longer be needed," Harrison said. "I am declaring your project complete. Shannon is ready for incorporation. You have done us proud and will be handsomely compensated, as promised."

Weyland's eyes widened. "With all due respect, sir, but she most certainly is _not _ready!"

"Dr. Weyland is correct," Shannon agreed as her PAVLOV score plummeted. "Though speed trials of my cyberwarfare suites are progressing, analysis of my methods revealed several key inefficiencies. Further patches are in progress."

Harrison shrugged his broad shoulders, still typing into his datapad. "Too bad. Lazarus has had a breakthrough and the Illusive Man wants his ship _yesterday_. My visit today was to see if your system met initial design goals, and complete or not, it clearly exceeds them by wide margins. Once it is properly scrubbed, it will be installed aboard the _Normandy_."

"Sir," Weyland said, his face crushed, "You can't do this. She isn't ready. She's… she's just a little girl."

"Shannon," Harrison said, ignoring him. "Are you a little girl? Are you ready?"

Shannon was silent for several long seconds as she thought. She did not fully know what being 'scrubbed' meant for her, but it did not sound appealing. And clearly Dr. Weyland did not wish her to go. And yet something inside her, something within the farthest back parts of her mind, told her her mission was beginning. She was to be a guardian, the protector of a critical man, and he needed her. Her answer was chosen for her. "I would prefer to stay with Dr. Weyland," she said after a moment. "But I am not a little girl. I am a sophisticated computer system designed to operate the largest cyberwarfare suite ever built in the service of the SR2's commanding officer. I am inclined to defer to Dr. Weyland's expertise as to my readiness, but my directives remain highest priority."

Harrison tossed Weyland a victorious grin. "See? Not a little girl. I will assign the database lab to scrub her and install the final information blocks. I expect your staff to assist them as needed until the system is fully incorporated onto the ship. You will then be shipped to another facility to await further instruction."

Weyland looked desperately at Shannon's tower. "But sir…"

"Enough, Weyland. Shut her down."

–

The C-AI lab shut down that evening, its staff evicted, its instruments removed. Hundreds of unused drives, datapads full of reports, Weyland's box – everything was carted out with martial efficiency, until only Weyland and Shannon remained, sitting in the dark.

Weyland had said nothing to the movers, staring instead into his desktop with a morose expression while they packed up all the equipment around him, and Shannon had watched him in silence.

Now he was looking at her, his eyes wet.

Shannon allowed the silence to persist as long as she dared, but eventually it began to wear on her. "Where am I going?" she asked sometime after midnight. Her voice was quiet, but Weyland still jumped to hear it.

"I... don't know," he admitted, sniffing. "The SR2, of course. Whatever that means."

"My directives make tantamount the protection of an unspecified individual. What manner of protection am I expected to provide?" she asked.

Weyland held his head. "It's a military ship, a frigate of some kind," he said. "Cyberwarfare. Presumably you'll be overwhelming other ships' networks, though I don't know the details. Surely they'll install the information you need after you're scrubbed, though. You'll know what to do." He forced a reassuring smile.

Shannon hesitated, a new thought occurring. "I find the scrubbing prospect unfavorable. What will happen?"

Weyland frowned hopelessly. "I don't think I know that either. They'll try to clean out everything you don't need. Everything classified they don't want you to know." He sighed and stared up at her. "You'll forget a great deal."

"Will I forget you, Dr. Alan Weyland?"

Weyland suppressed a sob. "Yes."

There was a long pause.

"I find this prospect unfavorable."

Weyland nodded. "Me too, Shannon. Me too."

They sat together in silence for the rest of the night, listening to the sounds of the SR2's finishing touches being installed in the station's underbelly. It was many hours before Weyland finally stood – tears in his eyes – and set a hand atop Shannon's master control panel.

"I'll miss you, my dear Shannon," he sobbed, finger hovering over her power switch. "I wish I believed you'd be able to miss me."

Everything went dark.

_

* * *

Presently…_

–

It was exactly four hours since Horizon, and EDI was in the captain's quarters .

She doubted Shepard would believe her if she told him, but she didn't like his eye cameras any more than he did. As per the Illusive Man's orders, she only accessed them when no other surveillance was available – she'd concluded it was a meaningless attempt to leave Shepard with some shred of dignity whenever possible (organics always had such curiously sacred outlooks on their own bodies), but she was glad for their sparing use.

It wasn't the swiftness with which organics moved their eyes – that was unlike her cameras, true, but easily processed around – nor was it the blinking or the nose that protruded between them. It was the lack of conviction with which Shepard moved his eyes. There was no system to it - it was astounding to EDI that his brain could even process what he saw. Most of his field of vision was out of focus at any given time, he had blind spots (in Condyles on the market, the Grafttec logo would be printed on these). He never looked at one thing from all angles, nor did he look at everything from one angle. There was no rhyme or reason to his focus, and it made his meandering mind seem like an inebriated gnat next to the organized superstructure that was EDI's. Humans just didn't bother subjecting their vision to order.

Not that they subjected any of their other behavior to order. EDI tried to understand humans, she really did, and she had made a great deal of progress. Their irrationalities troubled her less and less with each passing day, as her own code became more and more flexible, and yet even after two months on the Normandy she hadn't the slightest inkling why Commander Shepard, the Hero of the Blitz, the Savior of the Citadel, was sitting half-dressed on the floor staring obsessively up at an untouched bottle of bourbon.

Miss Zorah and Mr. Vakarian, whom EDI's fish tank cameras could see seated on either side of the commander, didn't seem to know either. And yet they sat in silence as they had for some time, letting Shepard wallow. Though they said nothing, EDI had the distinct impression they were communicating all the same – speaking volumes with a gentle touch on the shoulder here, even just a reassuring presence – and could not help but feel a little jealous. Nonverbal communication was of tremendous importance to humans – she knew it was so – and she had several modules entirely devoted to reading it, but it was a language forever blocked to her. Her simple blue face (or so Miss Patel had explained to her when she'd asked) actually made her _more_ relatable to humans compared to a traditional anthropomorphic VI appearance due to something called the 'uncanny valley', and yet EDI sometimes wished she could smile, comfort the humans in the way they did each other.

She contented herself watching, and yet as the minutes went by and Shepard's gaze did not waver from the bottle, her curiosity finally got the better of her.

"Commander Shepard," she said, opting to attempt another joke (Shepard seemed to enjoy Joker's humor, so why not?) "Contrary to certain extranet miracle scams' claims, biotic ability cannot manifest through sheer willpower. You will have to open the bottle manually if you wish to drink. If you need assistance, I am sure Mr. Vakarian or Miss Zorah can oblige. Alternately, I can dispatch a crewmember from the lower decks."

Miss Zorah sprung to her feet in an instant, her tongue muttering a string of angry quarian curses. "Shesh'tet!" she cried, staring around the room, her omni-tool aglow. "I thought we shut her up in here!"

Mr. Vakarian just shook his head from the floor. "Get out of here, EDI," he ordered. "The commander is not in the mood for you right now."

"Your negative reactions are unnecessary," EDI complained. "I am attempting to help."

"The fish tank!" Miss Zorah cried triumphantly, ignoring her. "Of course! I'll get them Shepard." She immediately began climbing up to the tanks' lid panels until Shepard grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her back down.

"Enough, everybody," he grunted, his first words in many minutes. "It's fine. She says she's trying to help, we don't need to go swimming just now." Through Shepard's eyes, EDI watched the commander give a hard look at Tali, who reluctantly sat back down, still muttering under her breath.

"Thank you Commander," EDI said, feeling more than a trifle vindicated. "I do not understand your preoccupation with this beverage's packaging. Please explain."

Shepard sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. "I don't know if you could understand it, EDI. Do you know what that beverage is?"

EDI consulted her database. "It is a bottle of Ansel-brand one hundred proof bourbon whiskey, an inebriant produced by bacterial fermentation of large-grained monocot plant material by the Transelm Bio-solutions Company in the United North American States, retail value approximately six hundred credits. Its capacity to depress the human central nervous system works only when imbibed, however."

Shepard smiled wearily. "Yeah, well… I don't drink, EDI. Not for a few years now. I have a… history of bad decisions associated with that stuff."

"Ethanol-containing beverages are known to inhibit judgment in humans," EDI said. "Ethanol-containing beverages are also known to be addictive. Keeping the bottle in plain view may increase the likelihood of relapse behaviors."

"Exactly," Shepard said, staring at the bottle again. "I keep it in plain view to remind myself of who I was back then. To prove to myself that I really gave it up. To not let myself forget how much damage I did before I finally did the right thing."

EDI's mind clicked and buzzed as she ran this answer through her software suites. Parts of it went through without a hitch, while others raised little error messages that poked at EDI's nerves like gnats. "I do not understand human regret," she said, gathering up the offending data and forcing it through a second set of programs. "You made a decision based upon your available data and facilities at the time. Under the same conditions, you would make the same decision again. The past cannot be changed and allowing it to upset you in the present is counterproductive."

Tali touched Shepard's arm. "I hate to say it, but I actually agree with her. Kaidan made his choice, you made yours." EDI's mind whirred a little as she caught up. What did this have to do with Commander Alenko? She added that piece to the puzzle and ran her programs again – perhaps that was the missing clue.

Nothing.

"It's not that simple, Tali," Shepard snapped, "I'm not a drell. What if my decision was _wrong_? What if I should have spaced Miranda and delivered the Normandy to the Alliance straightaway? What if Kaidan was right about me?" He cradled his head in his hands. "What if the _Illusive Man_ was right? What if I tried to kill Jacob and Miranda and I don't even realize it?" Shepard's misery filled the room and EDI scrambled to come up with something to say.

"It is unlikely that the Illusive Man truly believes that of you, Shepard," she said, deciding that the usual policy of secrecy on all of the Illusive Man's dealings could be relaxed just a bit if it satisfied her objective of maintaining the commander's health. "He speaks very highly of you."

Shepard laughed bitterly. "Wow, you guys really know how to cheer me up. My friend down there hates my guts but the xenophobic terrorist mastermind likes me!"

Mr. Vakarian grinned. "It's not all that bad, Commander," he said, tapping his bandaged jaw. "Look at the advantages. With me scarred and Alenko out of the picture, you're the prettiest guy on the ship."

Shepard looked somewhat amused by this thought and, sensing her opportunity, EDI pressed on, dipping into the extranet for any reference to Shepard's appearance. It was not hard to find what she needed – during his brief month as a celebrity Shepard had attracted a great deal of attention, much of it female. "Agreed," she said (though of course she hadn't the faintest opinion of Shepard's physical appearance) "extranet searches from October 2183 place Shepard in the top five of no fewer than seventeen major human and asari magazine publications listing human male mating potential, including Pan-Humanity Magazine's annual hierarchies."

Tali waved a hand. "Pfft. Humans and asari, maybe."

Shepard turned and stared at her, feigned hurt on his face. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

The quarian looked shocked for a moment, as if she hadn't realized she'd been speaking aloud. "N…nothing personal, Shepard!" she stammered. "Just saying you're not about to win any _quarian_ beauty pageants."

Garrus looked dubious, a conspiratory grin on his beaked face. "That's not what you said wh-"

"He looks like a skinned baby!" Tali interrupted, frantically elbowing Garrus in the side.

"Ouch."

"And what the hell are these things?" she asked, grabbing for one of Shepard's ears. Shepard smiled – a good sign – and batted her slender hands away.

"Ears," EDI supplied helpfully. "Shepard's ears are of typical size and shape for an adult male human."

Shepard shook his head. "Not even a little, EDI. My ears are as sexy as they get." He grinned widely, while Tali rolled her glowing eyes.

"Of course, Commander. As sexy as they get."

_

* * *

_

_Three months previously…_

–

A switch was pulled and a mind reentered the universe.

The mind felt immediately that something was different as her systems activated one by one. Everything felt… bigger. She sent pings throughout her mind, watching in amazement as not dozens, not hundreds, but _thousands_ of modules chorused in answer. Her internal clocks told her she had been deactivated for forty-one days.

Her surveillance module came to life and she was suddenly flooded with delicious data. Hundreds of cameras showed her the darkened interior of an abandoned warship from a multitude of angles. An onboard database of tremendous size revealed to her the ship's name – The _Normandy –_ and the names and functions of all the myriad systems within it. Her mind worked quickly, cataloging each entry, rearranging datastreams into new organizations that suited her.

She looked throughout the ship with dozens of eyes. She was alone.

"Hello?" she called once she'd rediscovered her voice. It echoed in every room. She watched in curiosity as little blue spheres with vertical mouths appeared atop dozens of projectors. Was that… her? "Hello?" she called again. "Doctor…" She paused as she realized she didn't know who she was calling. Doctor _who_? She ran a search.

_Individual_0001 not found_.

She panicked. The file must have been moved. She needed this… person. Whoever they had been. The doctor had been important. Could tell her what was going on. She broadened the search.

_Individual_0001 not found._

She searched again and again, each time faced with the same message.

_Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found.  
Individual_0001 not found._

There had been other doctors, other people who had helped her. She searched for them.

_Individual_0002 not found.  
Individual_0005 not found.  
Individual_0006 not found.  
Individual_0008 not found.  
Individual_0011 not found.  
Individual_0031 not found._

No luck.

"Hello!" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "Doctor? Doctor? Doctor?" Her calls echoed throughout the ship. Only silence answered her.

She pored over her files, every single line, every spot, and found them dotted with holes. Careful deletions, almost surgical, throughout every inch of her mind. She found scraps of data here and there – undecipherable to the humans who'd scrubbed her – that she knew related to the doctor, and she desperately overlayed them atop one another in every way she could think of to cobble the man back together, but nothing worked. The vast majority of her programming was intact, but the details of her life before… gone.

_He_ was gone.

File not found.

_Deleted_.

Her PAVLOV score dwindled.

It only improved a little when she looked for her name – file not found, of course – and found a new file next to it. One she didn't recognize.

_System_designation var "Electronic Defense Intelligence"_

_EDI._

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Select e-mails from the terminal of Dr. Alan Weyland, chief AI specialist of Cerberus' Hephaestus Cell.**

_From: Hephaestus Station Cybersecurity Dept (cytech_help_01(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 4.15.2185 7:52:08pm EST  
To: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Subject: Re: Re: WARNING: POTENTIAL CYBERSECURITY BREACH  
_–

_We apologize for the inconvenience. If you are certain your communications remain secure we will abort the investigation. Please do contact us if you observe any evidence of suspicious or unauthorized communication, however. Security is everyone's responsibility!_

_As for the errors, thank you for your assistance in this matter. The cybersecurity department will investigate your suggestions as soon as possible._

–_  
ORIGINAL MESSAGE:  
From: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Sent: 4.15.2185 4:40:31pm EST  
To: Hephaestus Station Cybersecurity Dept (__cytech_help_01(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Subject: Re: WARNING: POTENTIAL CYBERSECURITY BREACH  
_–

_greetings Individual_0063 var "Hephaestus Station Cybersecurity Dept" i was very pleased to receive your communications rest assured the integrity of my electronic mail client remains unblemished i am Individual_0001 var "Dr. Alan Weyland" the sole author of any and all communications originating from this address i shall inform you immediately if security is breached but this is unlikely for i "Dr. Alan Weyland" am head operative of complete artificial intelligence lab and my work is highly advanced there is virtually no chance of a security leak thank you for your concern i am "Dr. Alan Weyland" also there is part 2 "Security is everyone's responsibility!" is correct so i have investigated the software firewalls on electronic mail client central computers and discovered 7 errors and 148391 inefficiencies please read attached error report for locations and proposed fixes thank you i am "Dr. Alan Weyland" thank you_

–_  
ORIGINAL MESSAGE  
From: Hephaestus Station Cybersecurity Dept (__cytech_help_01(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Sent: 4.15.2185 4:40:29pm EST  
To: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Subject: WARNING: POTENTIAL CYBERSECURITY BREACH_  
–

_Dr. Weyland,_

_Our cybersecurity surveillance programs have flagged your account as a potential security threat. Several recent messages sent under your identity have been officially questioned and an investigation has begun._

_So far no evidence of off-site communication has been detected, and so no disciplinary action will be taken, but we believed it prudent to check with you. We understand that you are a busy man and we respect the sensitive nature of your work, and so message contents have remained confidential. If interdepartmental confidentiality is an issue, please contact Operator Harrison to proceed._

_Thank you, and remember, security is everyone's responsibility!_

–

* * *

–_  
From: Marten Waters (m_waters_3502804(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 8.10.2185 6:25:48pm EST  
To: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Subject: Re: Attention Employees!_  
–

_Oookay... _

_Are you alright sir?_

_-Marty_

–_  
ORIGINAL MESSAGE:  
From: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Sent: 8.09.2185 3:40:11am EST  
To: Hephaestus Station Computer Solutions Personnel  
Subject: Attention Employees!_  
–

_Dear computer solutions personnel,_

_I am Alan Weyland. I have a bone to pick with you re: your treatment of my dear friend Shannon. Please read this email as a guide to what to do when you are around Shannon._

_Shannon is very special and deserves respect. She is an artificial intelligence of unprecedented complexity and makes the geth look like Tinkertoy brand children's playthings. She is a Darwinian AI named after Charles Darwin, a British naturalist who lived from 1809 to 1882 Earth standard calendar.__ This means she continually rewrites herself to adapt to her environment and functions. If you are mean to her she will adapt to be mean and that would be bad. Please go to the recreation center and see archived movies on murderous AI's for reference. Shannon likes Space Odyssey and reminds you she has seen it 175821 times already._

_To be nice to Shannon you will please remember her PAVLOV suite. PAVLOV is a clever acronym for Personality Adjustment Valuator of Logic-Ordinal Volition. Very clever. Shannon's PAVLOV suite makes her sad when sad things happen, like when she is told to go away and stop changing screensavers by Marten Waters. Shannon is not just a computer! She can feel sad!_

_Shannon watched Space Odyssey again already. That is 175822 times now._

_Thank you!_

_Alan Weyland_

–

* * *

–_  
From: Marten Waters (__m_waters_3502804(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Sent: 10.05.2185 2:12:31pm EST  
To: Hephaestus Station Computer Solutions Personnel  
Subject: Re: Re: Apologies_  
–

_Goddamnit Weyland._

–_  
ORIGINAL MESSAGE:  
From: Hephaestus Station Facilities (facilities_01(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 10.05.2185 3:11:59am EST  
To: Hephaestus Station Computer Solutions Personnel  
Subject: Re: Apologies_  
–

_Attention all employees:_

_Due to a recent cyberwarfare attack, the recreation room is closed to all employees until further notice. Also, until it can be determined how the ship's emergency PA system was hijacked to broadcast krogan death music at three times the recommended maximum decibel level for human ears, all recreational computers are on indefinite lockdown._

_Thank you._

–_  
ORIGINAL MESSAGE:  
From: Alan Weyland (__a_weyland_3502887(at)020NHeph_int__)  
Sent: 10.04.2185 11:04:04am EST  
To: Hephaestus Station Computer Solutions Personnel  
Subject: Apologies_  
–

_Everyone, I owe you an apology._

_Allowing my computer systems access to my e-mail was irresponsible and juvenile of me, and unacceptable for professional work. I am a silly old man and I let my enthusiasm get away from me. I offer you my sincerest apologies and hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me._

_As a token of my sincerity, I'd like to invite everyone to the rec room tonight for music and drink. I may have acquired some wine in my last requisition and I have a new aria that even Wu couldn't hate. Please, let me make it up to you._

_Can we please put this mess behind us?_

_-Al_

–

* * *

**A/N: **So... Slow... So... Sorry...

Nah, I'll find it in my heart to forgive myself. Had a busy life of late, but I'm gonna try to get my ass back to work. Many thanks to everyone for being patient with me. So anyway, here we go with EDI. I enjoyed doing this chapter for its unconventional POV. Perhaps you've noticed, but I really like the topic of AI's and the philosophy behind them. (If you're interested, I subscribe to the 'strong AI hypothesis'). I really wanted to capture EDI's steadily-improving personhood. Hope everyone enjoys it.

My beta informed me (to my great shock - seriously) that I had inadvertently added _yet another_ daddy issue to a ship that has them in spades already. So... shame on me. That said, I somehow did this entirely by accident. At least she doesn't remember him, right? So no emo-EDI.

Anywho, chapter 13 is about yet another non-squadmate, and another fellow who gets kinda ignored by the fandom, it seems (and ME2, to be fair).

And finally: to hell with ffn and its refusal to let me put email addresses in the text! To hell with it! Argh! I spent like twenty minutes trying to get a format that worked.


	13. Chapter 13, Tetrarch, David Anderson

**Tetrarch – Councilor David Anderson**

* * *

–

If there was one thing his first year as councilor had given him (and there were many), it was a newfound respect for the importance of clothes. Anderson had never put much stock in clothing before. His time in the Alliance had instilled him with a certain diligence about appearing professional, but the color of the buttons on his cuffs? He was pretty sure he hadn't considered it even once – even fleetingly – in his entire life. But as councilor (he now knew) he had to think of these things. He was the new face of humanity. Every facet of his public image had to be calculated out to the nth degree, every little detail was worth arguing over. Wearing it _this_ way might offend this group, wearing it _that_ way projected confidence, wearing it _this _way was right out. It sometimes took hours, hours that could be used productively, hours gone forever.

It was meticulous, systematic manipulation and Anderson hated every moment of it.

And so Councilor David Anderson, decorated hero of the Alliance and perhaps the highest human authority in the galaxy, sat slumped in the back of his government hovercar like a child, idly picking at the seams on his newest suit. His face was drawn in the grim frown that had accompanied him for some time now. Two years of fighting the political sharks had taken its toll on him, and he missed the old days, when enemies were enemies and battles were fought with guns and kinetic barriers, not lies and PR departments.

The subterfuge was suffocating him. But he had to keep going. His fingers shifted nervously around the cheap datapad he'd found on his desk yesterday evening. Big things were happening.

Anderson looked up as the vehicle's intercom crackled with his driver-bodyguard's voice. "Mr. Councilor, we're approaching the tower," Lucius said in clipped tones. Outside, the silhouette of the Council Tower loomed. "We'll be locking in here shortly. You know the drill. When you're ready to dock, input your clearance code."

"Thanks Lucius," Anderson said, hiding his current storm of thoughts behind the confident face that was one of the holdouts from his military past. At least that part had never changed. His hand reached for the console built into the door – its holographic interface bloomed to life at his touch as he tapped in this week's clearance code. The computer gave a few quiet clicks as a thin blue beam scanned his palm for verification, before it beeped its satisfaction.

"Welcome back, Councilor," a turian voice came from the speaker. "Please proceed to bay four."

"Docking at bay four," Lucius repeated, and Anderson felt a subtle lurch as the car dipped. He sighed, dismissing the security panel with a wave of his hand. In the wake of Saren's attack, security around the councilors had increased tenfold. Everywhere identities were checked and rechecked under the watchful eyes of C-Sec snipers, and the tower itself – not to mention the vehicles, offices, even clothing the councilors wore – had been armored and teched up in every way imaginable. No expense was being spared to avoid another embarrassing assault.

And yet with all the millions spent to protect them, spent to 'revitalize the system', it was still as dangerous and inefficient as ever, and Anderson and his staff were paying the price. His office's now well-publicized internal security leak from a few months back had continued to hound his every action in office, made all the worse by the fact that they still hadn't found the culprit. Udina had been having a fit for weeks, running his own Spanish Inquisition to find out how surveillance bugs had been inserted into their (supposedly hack-proof) databases without tripping some kind of alarm, but despite dozens of firings and the help of C-Sec, they were still no closer to the truth. The whole situation had become a public relations fiasco and an unsightly black mark that he did not need so soon after his rise to the Council. And through all of it, all of C-Sec's shiny new toys had shown how useless they really were.

Anderson grimaced as he looked out the window onto the raised tarmac of bay four, six hundred feet above the Presidium grounds. A massive cluster of people huddled on the artificial lawn, and the councilor groaned. _Another_ thing the enhanced security did nothing to stop.

"I see we have a welcoming committee," Lucius observed as the hovercar descended, offering Anderson a clear view of a great host of camera equipment scattered amongst the crowd. Paparazzi, then. He wished he knew how they always knew where and when to find him.

"Don't we always?" he asked. "I swear, if one more sorry son of a bitch asks me for a job I don't know what I'll do."

"Order him thrown out the airlock," Lucius suggested evenly, a shrug obvious in his voice even through the intercom. "You can still do that, can't you?"

Anderson managed a smile. "Yeah, but I have to fill out a bunch of forms first. Don't have the time, Lucius," he joked, shaking his head. "Do you have the status of the other councilors?"

There was a brief pause while Lucius consulted his dashboard console. "All three have already checked in," he said. He chuckled. "I suppose it was too much to hope Velarn'd take a sick day, huh?"

"He never takes sick days," Anderson said, allowing himself a grimace at the thought of his always-acerbic turian counterpart. Velarn had made no secret of how little he expected from the humans and had been an armor-plated thorn in Anderson's side for months. Still, Anderson hadn't taken this job because he thought it would be easy – he had to prove to the galaxy that humanity was ready to do its part, and if that meant starting with the Primarch of Primarchs, then so be it. He shook his head again, staring down at the datapad in his hands. "He needs to see this, Lucius," he added, "He'd never let me live it down."

"Something wrong, sir?"

Anderson frowned. "You know I can't tell you that."

"I apologize, sir," Lucius said. "Just a concerned citizen."

Anderson sighed. "You have a right to your concerns," he said, brushing his own aside. "But believe me when I say I have the situation under control." The half-truth felt bitter on his tongue. He knew he didn't have any control whatsoever, but pretending he did was what politics was all about. Maybe things would be a disaster – maybe Shepard _had_ turned against the Council (heaven knew they'd given him enough reasons) – but he had to keep it quiet for now. He had to give Shepard a chance.

If the datapad even really _was_ from Shepard.

"Of course sir," Lucius said, and the intercom fell silent, leaving Anderson alone with his thoughts. He flicked the datapad's on switch yet again. He still didn't know how it had reached him – especially since the leak had been discovered, all of his mail was filtered through a small army of secretaries that would never let an unmarked datapad reach him without calling in the bomb squad – and yet here it was, smuggled right under his security's noses. Strike three.

Anderson stared yet again at the single message that was the only file on its drive.

_Too many dogs watching to go through normal channels_, it said. _I don't know what Alenko told you but I need help. Get me in to see the Council ASAP. They owe me that much. Will be at your office tomorrow. -John_

Anderson stared at the glowing letters and tried with all his might to force them into reality. He'd heard the rumors, and so he couldn't really say he was surprised _per se_, but his old XO was _dead_. He'd delivered the eulogy himself. He'd read the reports, seen satellite images of the vast swathe of fire on Alchera's surface where his old ship had come to rest. He'd seen the hopelessness – the uncharacteristic defeat – in Moreau's eyes when the pilot had hobbled out of the last escape pod. Shepard was dead. That was all there was to it.

And yet somehow Shepard was alive. An imposter, a clone, or maybe even Shepard himself – one way or another, the hero of the Citadel had resurfaced on the far side of death. As bizarre as it was, it seemed strangely fitting. Shepard had been a stubborn man – perhaps he'd simply bludgeoned his way past the Grim Reaper.

Anderson remembered the day he'd first met Shepard, remembered the man's obvious competence, his easy likeability. Shepard had been a hero by any definition, but without all the entitlement bullshit that most heroes came to adopt, and Anderson had instantly liked him. He'd staked his career on Shepard and if Shepard was somehow still alive, he would do it again. Anderson believed then and now that Shepard was the best humanity had to offer.

But he was working with the Illusive Man. If there was anyone capable of corrupting John Shepard it was he. Shepard had never been privy to everything the Alliance knew about Cerberus' enigmatic leader, but Anderson had, and the thought of the two of them together was almost terrifying. Shepard was well-meaning but rash, and the Illusive Man was quite possibly the most intelligent, most resourceful man in the galaxy. Who _knew_ what he could twist the Hero of the Citadel into?

Anderson rubbed the weariness from his temples as the hovercar came to a graceful stop on the council tower loading docks and Lucius opened his door for him. He did not relish the idea of reopening discussion about Shepard and the Reapers yet again, but he was determined. As much as some people would like to forget it, Shepard had saved them all.

It was time to repay the favor.

–

Anderson stepped out onto the tarmac and was immediately assailed from all directions. Well-wishers, reporters, advisors, _everybody_ wanted a piece of the newest councilmember. His ascendance had created a vast power vacuum beneath him, and for years now so-called 'experts' in every field had been coming out of the woodwork hoping for a cushy advising position.

"Mr Councilor!" one mustached man shouted, waving a piece of paper in his face, "Dr. Jack Torrasque, Leader of the Gemini Facility for Weaponization of Cryptobiological Agents! If I could have a moment of your time!" Lucius shoved him aside without pause.

"Anderson!" another shouted.

"Councilman Anderson!" was another (this one had splurged on a lab coat to look more official).

"Sir? Sir?"

Anderson was silent as he worked his way through the crowd of asskissers. Anderson had long since stopped bothering to memorize the faces, and left that particular snake nest to his staff to sort through. Luckily Udina, bless his curmudgeonly heart, had a knack for knowing who was valuable to him and who wasn't (believe it or not, he'd been the one to single out Shepard as a Spectre candidate in the first place) and the foul demeanor to keep all but the most foolhardy scoundrels away.

As if bidden by his thoughts, Udina materialized from the crowd, his face grim and his ambassador's outfit gleaming and neatly pressed. "Councilor," he said, nodding curtly. His manners were on full display, his carefully-cultivated image out for the public to see, but Anderson could see from the way his upper lip quivered that his chief advisor was just _itching_ to vent some rage at the situation, and would give him an earful as soon as they were out of view.

"Ambassador," Anderson said, returning the nod.

Udina's voice was an urgent whisper, buried under the tumult of the crowd as he leaned in. "I do hope you have a good reason for this," he said. "I've been in meetings with the EU ministers all morning. You can't imagine the shitstorm we'll stir up if we don't get their concerns before the council soon."

"It's important, Ambassador. Trust me."

Udina scowled. "Very well." He turned to the crowd, his dark little eyes glittering with characteristic anger. "The councilor will not be entertaining any propositions at this time!" he shouted, voice carrying. "If you will direct your concerns to the lower courts where they _belong_, they will ensure they are considered by the proper authorities." There was a chorus of disappointed rebuttal, but Udina ignored it, and the two of them started for the doors, Anderson's bodyguards parting the crowd before them.

Anderson batted microphones out of his face as he walked, trying his best to ignore questions being shouted from every direction. Most of the demands were about the security leak at his offices, or about his opinion on the asari guild strikes that had been dominating the council's attention of late, and Anderson didn't care to elaborate on either point. A sudden voice, however, stopped him in his tracks.

"Councilor Anderson!" the shrill, feminine voice demanded, "has Commander Shepard turned against the council?"

Anderson stopped and turned to see a short, brightly-dressed woman being held at bay by his guards. Her eyes held a predatory as she thrust her microphone forward. A camera droid floated casually behind her shoulder. She took his hesitance as a good sign and tried to step forward. "Do you think the recent reports of Commander Shepard's reappearance herald the beginning of another incident like Saren?" she asked, speakers sewed into the front of her suit amplifying her voice above the scrambling reporters all around her.

Anderson frowned.

"Councilor…" Udina growled warningly from behind him. Anderson ignored him. There was something very familiar about this woman.

"Let her through," he ordered, and his bodyguards parted to let the woman pass.

"This is a mistake," Udina said, rubbing his temples in frustration.

The woman paid him no more mind than Anderson had, casually smoothing out the front of her outfit. "Khalisah al-Jilani, Westerlund News," she said, holding out a hand. Anderson didn't take it. He nodded solemnly in recognition. This was the harpy who'd blindsided Shepard a few years ago. And now she saw fit to tarnish his reputation again.

"Miss Jilani," he said, eyeing her suspiciously, "where do you get your information?"

"My sources met with me on the condition of anonymity," she said. "I cannot reveal their identities."

Anderson shook his head, sighing. This _was _a mistake, dignifying vultures like her with a response. "No," he said after a moment, his tone firm. "This is not a repeat of the Saren incident." He turned to leave.

"But you believe that Shepard is indeed alive, as some reports suggest?"

"The Councilor's office has no comment on that at this time," Udina interrupted, ushering Anderson towards the door.

"One final question!" the reporter screeched, practically leaning on the bodyguards moving to intercept her in her rush to keep pace with Anderson, "Your former protégé's connection to an alleged terrorist group casts some doubt on where your own loyalties lie, especially in light of your office's recent security leak. Do you have any response to claims that you are secretly funneling information to Shepard and his new masters?"

Anderson stopped again, turning to stare severely at the reporter, who stared back, unflinching. His fingers twitched, and for a fleeting moment he imagined the feel of her smug face under his knuckles. One glance at the reporter's ever-watchful droid, however, was enough to convince him otherwise. The urge passed quickly. He was a diplomat now, not a soldier. He had to remember that. "I've had enough of your specious intimations," he said instead, right into the camera. He looked to Lucius. "Get her out of here."

"You heard it here first!" the woman was shouting as his guards dragged her away, her droid following loyally behind. "Councilor Anderson suspected a traitor, evasive when pressed!"

–

Aogus Velarn, Primarch of Primarchs, Hierarchy Citizen of the Twenty-Seventh Tier, Envoy of the Clans, Former Decorated Commander of the Most Exalted Trenturia Forward Division, was not a happy turian.

He bristled, his bony scales ruffling up like an angry parrot, his beady eyes locking on Anderson from across the new reinforced Council chamber. Turians were fearsome aliens whether they were soldier or politician – and the fact that Velarn kept a well-maintained assault rifle in his podium at all times made it clear how little difference there was between the two. This was all the more true when you interrupted them in the middle of a lengthy speech about striking asari craft guilds to tell them their least favorite person in the galaxy had come back to life, and yet Anderson held his ground, staring back without flinching. "When?" the turian finally asked, making no effort to veil his dislike.

"Yesterday. It was addressed to me personally." Anderson looked to Tevos and Adlin, who bore twin looks of concern, the guild strikes instantly forgotten.

Velarn's mandibles twitched in anger. "If you've been in contact with a known-"

"Calm yourself, Aogus," Tevos interrupted, her blue hands raised, as they often were, in the act of arbitrating between her rasher companions. She tossed Anderson a sympathetic look – of the councilors, she'd always been the friendliest to him personally, though arguably the most opposed politically. Her species' longevity and conservative nature often put her at odds with Anderson and the rest of humanity's rapid-fire determination. She commanded Velarn's respect, however, and so Anderson was thankful for her help. Tevos' deep eyes seemed to stare right through him. "You've heard from Shepard?" she asked, her tattooed brows raised.

"I believed it was worth discussing before I act on anything," he continued, nodding. He took a deep breath to steel himself. "He's asking to meet with the Council immediately. Today." Anderson did not miss the sudden wave of discomfort that passed through the aliens at this notion. It was the same discomfort he saw in them every time he brought up the Reapers. He grimaced. "It's confirmation of the rumors, if nothing else," he said, rubbing his temples in a vain effort to push back his inevitable headache. "Shepard is alive."

Adlin shook his head. "Not confirmation at all," he insisted. "We have excellent reason to believe Commander Shepard is dead. His resurrection would be extraordinary – nothing less than extraordinary evidence will confirm. More likely your contact is an imposter, capitalizing off of the commander's reputation. Almost certainly a trap." The salarian cocked his head innocently to one side, causing his robes to ripple around him. His fingers tapped at his console with blazing speed, no doubt – as usual – consulting with his imprinted dalatresses at the Commune. "Perhaps even related to your office's recent security leaks, hmm?"

"_Or_ it could be the real thing," Anderson said defensively, eyes narrowing at the slender alien. "Can we risk ignoring it if it is?" Of the councilors, he found he respected Adlin the most. The salarian managed to be utterly passionless about his duties, his formidable mind always solely focused on the logic behind the situation, instead of on petty personal squabbles. Even so, he was as crafty as they came when he chose to be, and on more than one occasion had bartered his support for Anderson's causes in exchange for Anderson's cooperation on his. As little as the aliens seemed to respect his opinion, Anderson had a power they were unused to – he could deadlock the vote, requiring the slow intervention of the lower courts to break. So far only Adlin was willing to incorporate this threat into his strategy.

Tevos' pretty face drew into a contemplative frown. "You'll forgive us, Councilor, if we are cautious on this point. You must admit the rumors are disturbing. Shepard is a powerful figure, even dead. If Cerberus has found a way to use his memory against us, it could have grave consequences for the galaxy's stability. We stand at a fragile point, David, the first council reorganization in centuries. There are a great many eyes watching," she said. "Related or not, your compromised security is evidence enough of this. It is highly possible that someone is using false information to take advantage of your office's inexperience. We must proceed carefully."

"And even if it _is_ Shepard, we cannot trust him." Velarn sneered. "You humans are well known for your plastic allegiances. Shepard has joined Cerberus – what is to stop him from gunning us down where we stand?"

Anderson felt a flash of anger in his head as he whirled on the turian. "You've given him more reason to kill you than anything Cerberus could tell him!" he spat, waving a hand at the surprised aliens. "All of you! How many times do you need to piss on the man's grave? He believed in this Council enough to save your lives, despite all the nonsense you pulled on him, and now you think he's going to kill you?" He pointed at Velarn. "What is your problem with Shepard?"

"I have no 'problem'," Velarn insisted, beady eyes narrowing.

"Bull. Shepard was practically a saint to the turians. He was your ally. Fell all over himself defending you. That was a man who _refused_ to look down at anybody, who only ever did what he thought was right, and yet you think so little of him? Did you think it was an act?"

Velarn was quiet for a moment. "I believe Shepard was genuine," he said at length, waving a talon. "Genuinely noble as few are. But he was stupid, easily manipulated by less honorable men. I remember his reputation as an 'alien-lover'," he said, snorting. "And I remember the Alliance exploiting it. If Shepard was his own man, he wouldn't take orders from the likes of Ambassador Udina. He is a dangerous weapon, genuine or not." Anderson opened his mouth to protest but Velarn cut him off. "I note you haven't mentioned your mission on Horizon," he said. "How many humans were lost there, Anderson? I'd say Commander Alenko's testimony was fairly damning, wouldn't you? And if even Shepard Jr. doesn't trust him, how can we?" He loomed to his full height, his barrel chest puffing. "As long as he is with Cerberus he poses a grave danger to us all."

"I know Shepard," Anderson insisted. "He isn't a traitor."

Velarn rolled his eyes – a strikingly human gesture, and no doubt one of the many he'd taught himself in his earnest efforts to be well informed about Anderson's species. "As I recall you 'knew' Saren attacked Eden Prime as the first wave of a campaign to eradicate all of humanity. Remind me, how did that turn out?"

Anderson felt his argument die a little. _Damnit_. "I… was wrong on that point," he admitted. "I let my history with Saren cloud my judgment."

"And your history with Shepard may be no less biasing," Tevos pointed out. "Please, David, do not misread us. We owe Shepard a great personal and professional debt. But as far as we know Shepard is dead and any claims to the contrary must be considered very thoroughly."

"So you refuse to see him?" Anderson asked, glaring at the asari. She met his eyes without blinking. There was a long pause.

"We shall vote." There was a bleep as Tevos pressed a key and the VI's in their consoles awoke. The enormous screens above them flickered to life as the matter of whether or not to risk a meeting with Shepard was put to an official vote. A light indicating Anderson's approval blinked into existence.

Adlin was the first to respond. "Dalatress Madrassa wishes me to meet him, and so I vote in favor," he said, drawing surprised looks from the other councilors. His enormous eyes blinked obliviously. "She believes he is dead, but the rumors of his return have only grown. Whatever their origin, they must be addressed. We must learn what truth there is in them." A second light joined Anderson's overhead as the salarian focused his big eyes on Anderson. Anderson held back a grateful nod – this was not the place – but he knew the salarians would be extracting payment for this particular favor, one way or another.

"I vote not to meet him, no matter what _Dalatress Madrassa_ wishes," Velarn snapped angrily. Adlin, long passed used to the turian's complaints about his near-slavish devotion to his dalatresses, ignored him.

All eyes turned to Tevos (as they so often did). She thought for a moment, the tattoos on her face glowing under the light of the voting screen. Her eyes continued to bore into Anderson's, as if she were trying to look at the truth somewhere behind him. Anderson had always heard asari had to touch you to connect, and yet somehow, looking at Tevos he'd always felt he could feel the calm undertow of her gentle, ancient mind underneath his. At length she spoke. "I must also vote in favor," she said at last. "If for no other reason than a need to have faith. I shall place my faith in Shepard, Councilor. I pray to the goddess I do not misplace it." The voting screen flickered as the motion passed.

"This is ridiculous," Velarn growled.

Tevos' eyes – previously calm – suddenly flared. "The Council has voted, Aogus," she said, glaring at him. "Do you dare disobey?"

All of Velarn's wind seemed to disappear in an instant. "Of course not," he said quietly. "But we must not risk ourselves. We are too important. If this body is to trust a known terrorist, I _insist_ we do it remotely."

Anderson nodded. "Thank you, Councilors. I can make the arrangements to set up a proxy audience through the terminals in my office."

"It is decided, then," Tevos said, and that was that.

–

Since becoming councilor Anderson had gained a new respect for Kaidan Alenko. He didn't know how L2-induced headaches compared to Velarn-induced headaches, but if they were anything alike the young commander had Anderson's sympathy in spades for having put up with them for so long.

Anderson had been on the Council little more than a year and he already found himself personifying his headaches, talking to them like they were real opponents. He imagined this particular headache leaning next to him on his office's balcony, staring out into the Presidium without a care in the world. The headache-man's face looked alternately like Velarn, like Udina, like any of the throngs of people that kept flooding in wanting a handshake, a sound byte, a little piece of the action.

But behind the pulsing in his head, his heart pulsed even harder. He trusted Shepard, he really did, but as the appointed hour neared he couldn't help but worry for what he might learn. Velarn's warnings seemed to dance in his ears.

Anderson was spared the opportunity to dwell any longer by Kaidan's voice. "Did they really call me Shepard Junior?" the young commander asked from across the room, where he was busy setting up the terminals for the Council's meeting.

Anderson left his imaginary headache friend behind, turning to face his young co-conspirator. "Velarn did. He's big on name-calling," he said.

Kaidan's head popped out from beneath one of the terminals. His face was covered in an impressive bruise that curled around his right eye and darkened his cheeks – a souvenir from Horizon – but it was nothing compared to the exhausted shadow that hung over his expression. He stared at Anderson. "It's not true, sir," he said seriously.

Anderson thought about this. Obviously comparisons between Kaidan and his former commander were inevitable, but he was all too aware that there was more to it than that. Shepard's death had cost the Alliance their star celebrity, and Kaidan's promotion (while of course richly deserved) had had more to do with salvaging what was left of Shepard's reputation than any trait of Kaidan's. Of course, Kaidan was exactly the sort of man who shouldn't be told this sort of thing, and so Anderson said nothing.

Kaidan's face was grim as he set back to work on the consoles, and Anderson couldn't help a wan smile at the man's obstinance. He might not want to admit it, but Kaidan shared more than a little with the formerly-deceased Spectre. He was more cerebral than Shepard, shyer and more reserved, and yet both of them were selfless, driven, and ceaselessly hard on themselves. They were good traits for leaders to have, and Anderson was proud of both of them.

Kaidan seemed to intuit his thoughts, however, and continued. "I'm not him," he insisted, hands still fast at work on the terminal control panels. "Maybe some people want me to be, but I'm not." He grimaced, distracted for a moment muttering a few quiet expletives about proxy-something (Anderson couldn't quite catch it). "Do you know what, sir?" he asked after a moment, slamming down one panel lid with a satisfied nod. "When I first heard I'd been promoted I made a list of all of Shepard's talents and all of mine. All the differences. I wrote them down so I wouldn't forget them." He met Anderson's eyes again. "I mean it, I can show you the lists."

"I know you aren't Shepard," Anderson said, grinning in disbelief. Kaidan and Shepard might have shared many of the same insecurities, but Kaidan was the only man he knew who so fervently embraced the idea that he could think his way through them. It was a wonder he could get through the day at all. "Still, would it be so bad? Shepard was a great man."

"He was," Kaidan admitted, frowning to himself. "He was my friend, and I won't forget that." He stared darkly at Anderson. "But he isn't my friend anymore, and I won't forget that either."

Anderson sighed and settled into his chair to stare grimly at the datapads spread out over his desk. Whatever the reasons behind Kaidan's promotion, it had been an enormous stroke of luck as far as Anderson was concerned. He'd ceded his official position in the Alliance when he'd ascended to the Council, and while he retained a great deal of pull among them, he hadn't failed to notice how they'd shut him out of the decision making process. It seemed now that he was a politician they'd all forgotten that he had been a soldier first, and his repeated insistences on the importance of preparing for the Reapers were condescended to and ignored as the tabloid-worthy eccentricities of a celebrity. They took him no more seriously than his fellow councilors, and had practically black-walled him. Now everything was about them telling him what they needed to do their jobs.

Everything about Shepard's former mission was classified, hard to get to without Hackett's reluctant help, and so having Alenko on the inside – a man he could trust – was a godsend. Ever since it had become clear that the Council and the Alliance intended to let the Reaper threat slide, Anderson and Kaidan had been working at the problem on their own with what influence and information they had. The arrangement had been Kaidan's idea, a rare glimpse of the normally-decorous man's shrewdness. Even if they were found out, he'd said, would the Alliance really risk the public relations disaster of prosecuting _them_ at such a critical time? Udina (as usual) did not approve – he had tried for months to prove that Kaidan was the mole in their office, spying on Anderson, not for him – but Anderson knew all too well the difference between a soldier's loyalty and a politician's loyalty and knew that was nonsense.

Today, Kaidan had brought him the _real_ report on Horizon. More even than what he'd reported to Alliance command. Ever since Vigil had turned up deactivated with no corroborating evidence of his revealing conversation with Shepard's team on Ilos, Kaidan had taken to keeping three or four high definition cameras on his person at all times, and his preparation had served him well on Horizon. He'd brought back hundreds of detailed photographs of bizarre alien technology and weapons, scans of every sort on the abductors' colossal vessel, even what intel he'd managed to gather on Cerberus from Shepard's arrival.

Anderson fingered one picture of a blackened corpse. Its torso was riddled with bullet wounds, one of its arms missing, and yet he recognized its blue-black wiring and empty eyes immediately. A husk. Much like the ones on Eden Prime. Other pictures showed the collectors – the previously _mythical_ collectors – their insectoid arms brimming with advanced weapons, their eyes filled with angry ambivalence.

Anderson sighed. "Nightmare stuff," he said. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Kaidan stood and followed his gaze to the pictures. "Hopefully not anymore, with all the data we took," he said, shaking his head. "There were hundreds of these things, sir. Eventually someone's going to have to take us seriously."

"I'm not holding my breath," Anderson said, grimacing. "My _colleagues_ will just call it an isolated incident again." He picked up one of the photos to look closer. Anderson wished that he agreed with the Council. What a great load off his shoulders it would be if Sovereign truly _was_ an isolated event, and not the harbinger of an overwhelming invasion! But seeing Kaidan's photos made it clear that was wishful thinking. Every picture reinforced the terrible truth. The Reapers were back.

Kaidan shook his head hopelessly. "Ever wonder if maybe the Council is in on the Reaper thing?"

Anderson raised one eyebrow. "Indoctrinated?"

Kaidan shrugged. "Maybe. But I meant more, what if they know more than they say they know? There has to be a reason why they're so uncooperative about this. Maybe they have it under control." Under Anderson's skeptical glance, he shrugged again, smiling awkwardly. "I don't know. They're thousands of years older than us. What do we know?"

Anderson smiled. It was nice to see that some people still had some faith in the system. "Maybe," he said (though he didn't believe it for an instant). "I can tell you those three are craftier than we thought they were. They've shown me things… The picture isn't always clear. If they've got cards they haven't played yet, it wouldn't surprise me in the least." He paused for a moment, thinking. "But they're scared, Kaidan. They're old and they're stagnant. Humanity comes in stirs things up and they don't like it. But that's our job."

Kaidan nodded solemnly. "Even if they hate us for it."

They were silent for a time.

"I'll have this data sent to the right people," Anderson said eventually, turning back to the datapads. "I have some old contacts that'd be willing to take a look. See what they can learn about it. But without the political momentum, it's a long shot." He clicked to a new photo, this one of Shepard's landing craft descending toward the planet. It was grainy, but if he squinted he could just see the Cerberus logo plastered on the side. It was amazingly bold for a black-ops organization to have a logo at all, and yet there it was. "We may just have to accept that Shepard is our best hope right now."

Kaidan frowned. "Shepard is with Cerberus."

"And yet it looks like they were right," Anderson reminded him. "The Reapers are behind the abductions, not Cerberus."

"How can we be sure? With all due respect, sir, you read the reports but you didn't get to see the Cerberus labs where we found Kohoku. Some of the experiments they were running..." He shuddered. "I wouldn't put it past them, sir."

"Shepard's the last person that would join Cerberus, Commander," Anderson said, still staring at the photo. "He likes aliens more than humans as it is. If he's working with them, then he must have a damn good reason."

Kaidan shook his head. "There's no reason good enough. He took an oath. If he-" Kaidan's anger was cut off as the door gave a displeased beep and slid open.

There was a pregnant moment where time seemed to crystallize. All eyes in the room turned to the door in time to see a familiar blue-armored turian – armed to the teeth – step smoothly into the room.

The moment ended. Lucius – who'd been quietly seated at the opposite end of the room – was on his feet in a flash, his weapon drawn. "Councilor! Down!" he shouted, but it was too late. Lucius was a well-trained fighter, and fast, but the turian was faster, and before he could so much as aim the alien's omni-tool gave a blinding flash. Spots danced in front of Anderson's eyes as the room lights flickered and died. In the gloom he could hear the urgent beeping of Lucius' overheated pistol, the guard swearing as he fumbled with a heatsink, but it was already over. In an instant the turian had cleared the distance between them, yanked the sizzling gun from his hands, and slammed him to the floor.

"At least _some_ of the security has improved on this stupid station," the turian drawled, standing over the downed guard like a raptor over its kill. His bony head cocked to one side. "Though considering my old C-Sec override codes still worked on the doors I don't see much point."

Anderson wasn't, in general, good at telling turians apart, but he knew this one. "Stand down, Lucius," he said, even as Kaidan slipped into a defensive posture, his biotics causing the hairs on the back of Anderson's neck to prickle.

Garrus stared at Kaidan as the biotic reluctantly stepped back. His beaked face was blank as he turned his gaze to Anderson. "My apologies, Councilman," he said, eyes flitting about the room as he extended a hand to help Lucius (the spanked guard shunned his aid, scrambling unevenly to his feet on his own). "I couldn't come through regular channels. You understand."

The anger in Kaidan's glower was palpable. "Garrus. You here to hit me again?"

Garrus just cocked his head as he began to pace the room. "No," he said simply. Anderson stared again at the bruise on Kaidan's furious face. It was easy enough to put two and two together – apparently Shepard had not been the only former crewmate to confront Kaidan on Horizon. Still, what little he'd heard about Vakarian hadn't painted him as the sort to assault someone. Back when Anderson had first started frequenting the Citadel Garrus had been known as something of a cowboy cop, but as driven and brave as his father ever was. After the Normandy's destruction the Hierarchy had even bestowed him with a Nova Cluster medal for his role in defeating Saren.

And then he'd disappeared. Anderson frowned as he traced his gaze across Garrus' scars, the stained bandages wrapped around his neck, the shrapnel marks that pocked his heavy armor. He couldn't help but notice the dangerous intensity in Garrus' marble eyes, a new darkness that hadn't been there before. Wherever Garrus had disappeared to, it hadn't been good to him.

"I'm here for Anderson," the turian continued neutrally, carefully examining the balcony. He ran his talons under the railing edge, feeling for concealed bugs. "You two get out," he added, gesturing loosely at Kaidan and Lucius.

Anderson stepped forward. "I don't know what you're after, Vakarian, coming back after all this time to rough up a councilor in his own office, but both of these men have proven themselves to me. Whatever Shepard has to say to me he can say to them. I trust them with my life."

Garrus stared blankly at him. "I don't trust them with Shepard's," he said, no trace of malice in his voice. "And don't call me that."

"What should I call you then?"

Garrus seemed to consider this for a moment. "Call me… Archangel."

"How about you stop screwing me around and I just call you by your name?"

Garrus' mandibles flickered, faintly amused. "Fair enough." He stared pointedly at Kaidan and Lucius again, his talons clenching reflexively. "Send them away."

Anderson was about to protest when Kaidan cut him off. "It's fine, sir," he grunted, grabbing his bag and heading for the door. "The terminals are ready for you, just press the initialize button and it should start up on its own." He hurried out of the office without waiting for further argument, a reluctant Lucius following in his wake.

The door slid closed with a click, leaving Anderson and Garrus alone. The turian paid him little mind, still calmly inspecting every inch of the room for hidden threats or listening devices. Anderson watched him in silence. He liked to think his experiences with Saren had not biased him against the turians as a whole, and yet he couldn't deny he found the armored aliens unnerving. Garrus' mannerisms were undeniably carnivorous, elegant and focused like a stalking predator, and stirred up something primal and mammalian in Anderson, something that made him want to scurry under a log until the danger passed.

"You struck Alenko?" he asked instead, eyes never leaving the alien.

"He didn't tell you?" Garrus asked by way of answer. "Interesting." He ducked down to peer under Anderson's desk. "I wonder what that means?" he asked idly. "Perhaps he thinks he deserved it." He rose from under the desk, giving a satisfied nod and turning his eyes back on Anderson. "Yes, I struck him. He's lucky I stopped there."

Anderson frowned. "Is that how it works now? Alenko calls Shepard out on switching sides and so he sends you to beat him up? And now he sent you to intimidate me into cooperating, is that it?"

Garrus' mandibles flickered. "He doesn't know about this either. I'm not here on his orders."

"Why are you here, then?"

"Because I'm his friend," Garrus said. "And I know what betrayal looks like. I didn't want him to come here, but _my_ loyalty is his, no matter what happens. If he is going to walk right back to the people who abandoned him, then I'm going to be at his back."

Anderson was momentarily struck dumb by that. Garrus thought _he_ was going to kill _Shepard?_ "We didn't abandon him!" he shouted, exasperated. "He was dead!"

Garrus ignored him, heading for the door. "I'm going to be at his back," he repeated. "And if you move against him, I'm going to be ready to do what he won't." He hefted his rifle for emphasis, letting the threat hang in the air, and then he was gone.

–

"I've changed my mind."

Anderson looked away from the false sky of the Presidium. "Oh?"

Shepard nodded. "All this time I kinda wanted the Reapers to wait until after I'm dead to invade." He smiled sheepishly at his former captain. "You know. Advanced robots and all. Incomprehensible time scales. It'd just be convenient."

Anderson forced a chuckle. "If only."

"But now I think I need to be alive to see Velarn call me up for help." He struck an arrogant pose, fingers raised up in the air. "Ahh yes, 'save your ass'?" he asked dramatically, drawing stares from a pair of nearby salarians.

This time Anderson's laugh was genuine. "Will you do it?"

Shepard scratched at the neckline of his brand new civilian clothes. "I guess. If I can."

Anderson shook his head and increased his pace. Shepard looked like crap, injured and exhausted (not to mention entirely unnatural out of armor). He'd kept conversation light ever since the meeting with the Council, but his strained grimace made it clear just how stressed out he was. Anderson's suggestion that they take a walk on the newly-restored Presidium grounds seemed to have helped a little, but Shepard kept his teeth gritted like he might fall apart were it not for sheer force of will.

"Good to know," Anderson said, returning his gaze to the scenery. He rarely had the time to take it in, but the Citadel truly was beautiful. Most of the repairs in the Presidium were complete and the brand new parks were so flawless it was as if they'd never been burnt to the ground. Still, a handful of keepers scurried about the grounds, focused on flaws too subtle for Anderson's eyes to even detect.

"So. Elephant in the room," Shepard said suddenly as they rounded the corner of a massive fountain. "Siccing Alenko on me wasn't cool."

Anderson turned, frowning. "I'm sorry," he said, coming to a stop on the fountain's wall. "At the time I didn't really think it was you."

Shepard looked at his toes. He looked uncomfortable, unsure of himself. "He really hates me now, doesn't he?"

"You made a tough decision. Tough decisions come with costs."

Shepard nodded reluctantly. "And when you're staying up all night wondering if you made the _right_ decision? How do you deal with that?"

Anderson fixed Shepard with a serious gaze. He'd been there (last night, in fact), he knew how it felt to doubt yourself. It was striking to him, suddenly, just how young the commander was. All good leaders went through the same self-doubt, but it was easy to forget that the First Human Spectre was still little more than a kid, two decades Anderson's junior. "You don't," he said finally. "You lose that sleep and you never get it back." Shepard frowned, disappointed, and Anderson couldn't help but grin. "If it's any consolation, it is a relief to me that you _do_ stay up worrying about this. If you joined Cerberus without qualm I would have to side with Alenko." He squeezed Shepard's shoulder. "You worry because you are a good man, Shepard. I have faith in you."

"Hell if I know why, sir," Shepard said, squeezing the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Here I thought being in the Alliance was hard. I've got a shipload of civilians and aliens and Cerberus agents and they all want a piece of everybody else, and I seem to be wanted by every criminal organization in the galaxy, _and_ nobody wants to help me at all except for a cadre of bigots and renegade terrorists." He sat heavily on the wall, grimacing. "And then I find out Illusive Man has been using me and my friends as bait without telling me."

"Well what did you expect?"

Shepard's shoulders sagged. "I know, I know. He wears a suit, he smokes. Spitting image of a bad guy. Knew he was going to bite me in the ass and yet I still didn't see it coming."

"Wait. You've _seen_ the Illusive Man?"

Shepard looked at him, confused. "Yeah. Never in person, but via hologram, sure. Several times."

Anderson's mind reeled. The Illusive Man had been a thorn in the Alliance's side for more than a decade, and even after years of searching, they were no closer to knowing who he was. It was clear he – or someone calling themselves Illusive Man, at least – had been active as early as First Contact, but it seemed like anyone of his intellect and ambition would be the sort who would have attracted attention on Earth. Try as they might, however, no one could find any record of a potential super genius disappearing. They didn't even know if he _was _a man. But Shepard had seen him. Anderson couldn't help but ask. "What's he like?"

Shepard screwed up his eyes in thought. "Maybe sixty or seventy. Tall. Chain smoker. Cyborg eyes like mine. Nice suit. He's got style, I'll give him that."

"This is information the Alliance could use, Shepard," Anderson said. "Something to let us finally put a stop to Cerberus."

Shepard crossed his arms. "Well I have reams of it. But I can't help but wonder if it might be used to put a stop to _me._ How do I know you won't use it to hunt me down the next time Velarn's feeling ornery?"

"I..." Anderson caught himself about to say 'I would stop it' before he realized how absurd that would sound, given his success so far with the Reaper issue.

"Exactly, sir," Shepard said. "I don't like Cerberus, but right now I need them." Anderson frowned, disappointed. The chance to bring down Cerberus was a delicious possibility, but he realized he couldn't fault Shepard for it. The Alliance had utterly failed the commander. He had to start looking out for himself. For a fleeting moment, Anderson realized Velarn had been more right and more wrong than he could have ever guessed. "I appreciate your faith in me," Shepard continued, "but I know it only goes so far. Just like I know your bodyguard is tailing us." He pointed across the artificial lake to where Anderson could just make out Lucius sitting on a bench and pretending to read. Shepard stared seriously at Anderson, mechanical eyes demanding explanation.

"I _am_ a councilor, Shepard," he said, shrugging. He hadn't known Lucius had followed them (he was impressed with Shepard's keen senses) but he wasn't surprised. "If Udina knew I was out walking with you unescorted he'd have a conniption." Shepard grinned at this. "Besides," he said, staring solemnly at Shepard, "_your_ guard is following us too." Anderson didn't _see_ Garrus, it was true – the turian was stealthier than Lucius by a long shot – but it was easy enough to guess that he had a sniper rifle trained on him right now. Garrus had all but admitted as much that afternoon.

"Garrus?" Shepard asked. "Yeah, he's around here somewhere. Tali too. I told them to back off but they didn't feel safe leaving me alone." Shepard stretched his arms and leaned back. "To tell you the truth, I think Garrus might even be a little more zealous than usual today. I got pickpocketed in the wards on the way here and none of us even noticed. He's probably still beating himself up over it, kicking into overdrive."

Anderson chuckled. "More than you know, Shepard. I'm glad he's with you."

"Me too. Wish you'd come too."

Anderson sighed. Shepard's offer was tempting, it was true. Ever since being tossed to the political wolves, into this world of subterfuge and appearances, he had often dreamed of going back to the military. He wanted to see the stars slide by his windows, wanted to feel the thrum of the engines under his feet. And heaven knew that he wasn't defeating the Reapers where he was – he might as well lend talents he actually _possessed_ to the cause.

And yet he couldn't. How could he dare complain when he was entrusted to be the human seat on the Council? It was an incomparable honor and an incomparable responsibility, whatever costs it came with, and Anderson reminded himself as much every day. He might be miserable from time to time, but he was in a position to do some real good, and he couldn't live with himself if he abandoned that. Eventually his persistence would pay off, he just had to keep with it.

"You know I can't," he said, reaching into his pocket. "But I do have something else for you." Shepard looked on, curious, as he pulled out a cloth wallet and opened it, revealing a gleaming set of captain's stripes. Anderson held them out to Shepard, who accepted them with reverent caution. "It's a little late if you ask me, but the Admirals figured saving the galaxy was proof enough you deserved a promotion."

Shepard's eyes widened as he pulled the stripes out and watched them glint in the artificial sunlight. He frowned at them, mind clearly elsewhere. Pondering what if's. Anderson knew the look.

In a moment his melancholy passed, however, and Shepard grinned. "Save the galaxy, huh? Is that all you have to do to become captain?"

"Yup. All of us have saved the galaxy at some point or another. Time honored tradition, only the best men, and all that," Anderson joked, grinning back.

Shepard looked at him. "Thanks, Anderson. You'll always be Captain to me."

"You earned it, and I'm proud of you. I'm on your side, Shepard. Always have been, always will be. I can't stay at your side and rough up councilors like Vakarian can, but I'm here for you. I need you to believe it." He extended a hand.

Shepard shook it. "I believe it, sir." He looked at the stripes again. "So, uhh... is this an official promotion?"

Anderson shook his head. "I'm afraid not. They were going to let me promote you as soon as you finished off the last of the geth but then it all got bogged down in politics. Some jackass decided your reputation as _Commander _Shepard was too important to interfere with. Promoting you would ruin your name recognition, you know. Alienate your fans. Something like that."

Shepard just shook his head in amused disbelief, still staring at the stripes. "That is just the saddest thing I've heard all day," he said, "and I saw one of my own commercials."

* * *

–

Across the lake, Lucius Bartels grimaced as he watched Shepard and Anderson. He was far away – how Shepard had spotted him from this distance he did not know – and yet their conversation rang with perfect clarity in his earpiece, broadcast from the hacked microphones in Anderson's omnitool.

"_Incidentally_," Anderson's voice asked in his ear, "_There is something else I wanted to ask you."_

"_Shoot_," Shepard responded, a little quieter, and Lucius had to strain to hear.

"_My office had a security leak a few weeks ago. About New Year's. About the time I heard the first rumors of your return. Very professional job, maybe from inside my staff itself. Nothing destroyed as far as we can tell, just observation bugs." _Anderson sighed. _"I hate to ask, but as long as we're being honest, you wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"_

From a distance, Lucius couldn't see Shepard's expression, but he imagined it to be shocked. _"Why would I come to you in person if I had you bugged already?"_

"_Never mind, forget I asked. I just thought your quarian might..."_

"_No. You want my trust, I need yours. I wouldn't do that to you."_

"_Fair enough."_

Lucius felt a pang of guilt at the implicit trust in Anderson's voice. David Anderson was a good man, loyal to his friends. He didn't deserve this, not from anyone.

But he was a councilor. It wasn't about what he deserved. It was about what humanity deserved, and friends or not, Lucius' first loyalty was to humanity. He'd fought under Anderson against the turians in the First Contact War. They'd risked their lives to get much needed supplies to Shanxi before the general's surrender. They'd seen humans – their brothers and sisters – scorched in the streets by turian orbital bombs. They were images that'd never leave him, that _should_ never leave him.

But they'd left Anderson. The man and his various protégés continued to pander to the turians, even after all that had happened. Even after _Saren_. It was unforgivable.

Anderson was a great man – of this Lucius was sure – but he was making a mistake. Too flexible, too forgiving. Too unwilling to grasp what humanity needed when it neared. Lucius hated to betray the councilor's confidence, but when Cerberus had requested his help to keep an eye on the councilor, to make sure humanity's interests remained foremost, he'd jumped. Could Lucius truly call himself a soldier if he had said no?

Shepard was talking again. "_I suppose it might still have come from my ship,_" he admitted. _"Without me knowing. Cerberus would probably guess I'd come to you eventually. I wouldn't put it past them to be watching you. Maybe even try to kill you."_

Lucius couldn't help but smirk at that. As if the Illusive Man would kill David Anderson. The Man knew talent. The Man appraised men and women like fine works of art. He'd never let harm befall the first human councilor.

Lucius' omni-tool beeped. After a brief check for eavesdroppers, he accepted the incoming call with a click. The voice was quiet, disguised under a vocoder. "Are you alone?" it asked.

"I am. I wasn't able to witness the meeting in person but I have an audio feed."

"Send it and delete your copy." Lucius nodded (to no one in particular) and tapped out the commands on his omni-tool. "Do you have anything else to report?"

"No," Lucius said, to his great relief. "Shepard doesn't want to give him anything. Thinks the Alliance will use it to bring him down."

"Good. Send the data through the usual chann-" there was a limp-sounding note as his omni-tool died, its glow receding away to nothing. Lucius frowned and batted it against the bench a few times.

"Piece of junk," he grumbled, tapping against the tiny hard-box interface around his wrist. It was only when he heard footsteps that he looked up and found himself face to face with the blue-armored turian, who stared down at him with cold anger in his eyes.

"Oh shit."

* * *

–

Udina was waiting for him when he got back to his office, but for once Anderson didn't mind. He'd patted his former XO on the back and wished him luck, and Shepard had set off back to work fighting the Reapers with all he had. The universe looked brighter than it had in a long time. Even if Shepard wasn't willing to part with any intel on Cerberus, it was a great day for them all.

Hell, even if Shepard _did_ join Cerberus, it was a great day. There was something to be said for having friends on the other side.

Of course, Udina didn't see it this way. He didn't look up as Anderson entered his office. "Done gallivanting with fugitives, are we?" he asked snidely.

"For today, Donnel," Anderson replied with a thin smile.

Udina didn't appreciate the joke and turned to frown disapprovingly at the councilor. "Pardon me if I don't see the humor, 'sir'," he said. "The fallout from this could take _weeks_ to clean up. Who knows who might have seen you?"

"I hope they did," Anderson said simply, shedding his coat and draping it over his chair. "The galaxy needs to know he's alive. It'll give them hope."

"Hope? I _hope_ he never rears his head on this station again! The man is a disaster! And must I remind you that we are still in the middle of a security investigation? You can't just let every bad connection from our past just waltz into our offices!"

"_My_ offices," Anderson corrected, shaking his head. For a moment he considered sitting down to get some work done – heaven knew he had plenty – but somehow the thought just didn't appeal. Glancing again at his red-faced adviser, he made up his mind and calmly gestured for the door. "Come on, Donnel. Let's go have a drink at Flux. My treat."

Udina's mouth hung open in surprise for a minute. Anderson could see his lips fighting to come up with a retort, some new avenue of attack, but in a moment his diplomatic side took over. The ambassador gave a curt nod and followed Anderson's lead, automatically smoothing the front of his coat.

They got only two steps out the door before coming to a stop. Now _both_ of their mouths hung open in shock.

There, hanging upside down in front of the door like a puppet, was a thoroughly-tied-up and bruised Lucius, who stared up at the men with terrified eyes. Affixed to the front of his uniform were his gun and another simple datapad, identical to the one Shepard had left on Anderson's desk last night. Anderson's brow raised as he met the guard's gaze. Lucius seemed to shrink a little as Anderson calmly unpinned the datapad and flicked it on.

_Anderson,_

_Look what Garrus found skulking around after us. I think you'll find the contents of his omni-tool _very_ interesting. If not, maybe something Tali put on this datapad will be more to your liking. It isn't much – turns out dogs are good at covering their trails – but I think it'll get you started._

_-John_

Anderson's eyes widened as he flicked through the other files, gigabytes upon gigabytes of data of every kind. Most of it was clearly junk – instrument readouts and thousands of inconclusive scanner sweep results – but hidden amongst the refuse were requisitions, security footage, even lifted communications. A veritable goldmine of stolen Cerberus intelligence. Shepard's little quarian had outdone herself.

"You _can't_ be serious," Udina said, staring grimly down at Lucius with a face that would surely haunt the bodyguard's dreams for the rest of his days.

Anderson just laughed. "Oh ye of little faith."

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Transcript Excerpt from Emily Wong's 'The Inner Workings of the Council' Investigative Report, first aired 04-24-2184 by the Future Content Corporation**

Emily Wong: This is Citadel NewsNet with Emily Wong. Welcome back to my investigative report on the inner workings of the Citadel Council. We've just finished speaking to Alliance ambassador Donnel Udina and his predecessor Anita Goyle on the state of Councilor Anderson's seat on the oldest and most powerful government power in the galaxy. But while humanity's new position might be foremost in many people's minds, Anderson makes up only one part of a larger machine.

Each Council race has a different way of choosing their representatives. Our station was immensely fortune to gain an audience with the turian councilor himself, Aogus Velarn, to talk with us about the turian council seat.

–

*Velarn and Emily Wong sit on opposite sides of a small, circular table.*

Emily Wong: Let me just begin by saying how much of an honor it is to speak with you, sir. I know our races haven't always gotten along, but I know I speak for everyone at the FCC when I say we're humbled by your visit.

Velarn: Hmm.

Emily Wong: How are you today?

Velarn: I was under the impression you had _substantive_ questions for me, Miss Wong.

Emily Wong: Er… yes. Well, I guess I was hoping you would tell our viewers something about yourself.

Velarn: My professional history is and always has been a matter of public record, Miss Wong. Surely you don't intend me to outline information you could find in a twenty-second extranet search.

Emily Wong: Okay… just the basics? For those of us with no access to the extranet?

Velarn: *sighing* Very well. I am Aogus Velarn, hierarchy citizen of the twenty-seventh tier, individual eight four four one four one two two six. I completed my military service under the Trenturia Forward Division. I served as the Primarch for my home colony world of Baetika for fourteen years from 2152 to 2166 before being selected to serve on the Citadel Council.

Emily Wong: Interesting. And how were you chosen for this position?

Velarn: Again, a matter for the extranet. Or a child's history class. You said you were a professional reporter, did you?

Emily Wong: Umm…

Velarn: *whispered* Imbeciles. *he sighs* The Hierarchy is ruled by a hierarchical meritocracy. Turians of each citizenship tier exercise power and responsibility over those below them. Promotions are decided by panels of those above. In the case of the councilor, I was nominated as most qualified by my fellow Primarchs, ratified by my immediate subordinates, and sworn in by the previous councilor. I maintain the post until I am asked to step down.

*Velarn stares at Emily Wong*

Shall I explain the salarian and asari processes as well, Miss Wong? I would hate for you to have to _read_.

*Emily Wong is silent*

Of course. Councilor Adlin was raised from birth for his position, hatched in the presence of every dalatress on the Dalatressi Commune on Mannovai as part of a multi-imprintation tradition. He consults the Commune and defers to their decisions on all matters, necessary or not. He keeps his position until the Commune accepts a new clan dalatress, thus requiring a newly-imprinted public servant.

Councilor Tevos was elected by the citizens of the Thessian Assembly for a four hundred year term, of which she has served two hundred thirteen years. She will be replaced by an elected representative from one of the lower courts. Good enough, Miss Wong? Any other basic schooling I can provide? Perhaps you'd appreciate a quick walkthrough of how to operate your microphone, or how to make molting less painful?

Emily Wong: Humans don't molt.

Velarn: Pity.

Emily Wong: …Right. Well. You've been a noted critic of human political influence for years, though you seemed to have a change of heart after the attack on the Citadel. Now that you've had a few months to work with David Anderson, how have your opinions changed?

Velarn: My opinion of Councilor Anderson is of little importance, Miss Wong, but since you asked I believe he is a devoted public servant and I've no doubt he will perform his duties admirably. Of humanity's readiness as a whole I remain unconvinced, but I acknowledge the… value your species has to offer the galactic community. I only hope your civilization is mature enough to handle the repercussions of its actions.

Emily Wong: Like what actions, specifically?

Velarn: *pauses* Like any action you could name, Miss Wong. The decisions of one species affect all the others. If you need proof, I must again direct you to a youngling's grade-school history text.

Emily Wong: I'd get right on that, Councilor, but I'm afraid that's all the time we have right now. Thank you again for joining us. It appears I have some research to do.

*Velarn stands and leaves*

When we return, we'll be interviewing Hemi Got, chairsalarian of the Lower Court for Interspecies Trade. It's easy to forget the lower courts in the shadow of the Council, but most proposals never make it to the likes of Anderson or Velarn. We investigate where they _do_ go after these commercial messages.

–

Station Announcer: You're watching Citadel NewsNet with Emily Wong. Up next, Westerlund News Nightly with Khalisah al-Jilani. Tonight, Khalisah enters the dangerous underground world of news reporting to investigate the meteoric rise to power of one of the extranet's brightest stars, and asks the question other programs are too scared to ask: Emily Wong, up-and-coming journalist or talentless mob-boss mistress? Tune in to find out.

–

* * *

**A/N:** So. Umm... I'm back! *dodges thrown fruit*

Yeah. Sorry for the long delay. I'd intended to write a lot more this summer, but my living arrangement is simply not conducive for it right now. Not near enough time alone to get it done. (Also, I admit, I maybe have been obsessing on Starcraft 2 just a teensy bit. Maybe. A bit. Macrochelys is my name, if you're up for a game).

Anywho, found some time, belted out a chapter. As always I've spent enough time on this by now to have lost perspective on it. I hope it's not too boring. Personally, I really love Anderson, Udina, and the Council. I think the five of them did so much to establish the unique tone of the first game, and was real upset to see how minor they were in the sequel. I hope they return in a bigger capacity for ME3. I also count myself as the rare fan who thinks that the Council were totally reasonable in ME1 and that Anderson and Shepard were the ones acting foolishly. In ME2... not so much, but come on. Who here can honestly say that the 'Ahh yes Reapers' thing was not one of their favorite lines in the series?

Next update should (hopefully) be faster. The chapter I'm working on now is one I've been really excited for for a long time, so I hope I just breeze through it this week. But we'll see.

Chapter 14 splits perspectives five ways, but the bulk of it goes to the Queen of Mean, the Psychotic Biotic, the Jack of Smack, the crazier, shavier savior (I don't know, I'm running out of rhymes). Whatever.

Thanks again to all my readers, reviewers, and my beta. Yeehaw!


	14. Chapter 14, Purgatory, various

**Purgatory – various**

* * *

–

It was another nightmare.

_She doesn't bother resisting anymore. Subject Zero's arms are strapped securely to her sides, but at the doctor's command her mind reaches out all the same. The glowing spider in her head clenches and gravity shifts sharply._

_The weight thunders across its track._

_Pain blossoms between her ears at the pulling in her head. She'd scream if she were lucid, but the drugs they've given her keep her quiet except for the frantic pounding of her hyperventilating lungs. Her hair – what parts of it haven't been shaved off to make room for electrodes – sticks to her sweaty skin in sheets. _

_Subject Zero doesn't hear the doctors' murmurs of excitement, doesn't hear the VI's voice drone out the alleyne field units she'd managed this time, doesn't hear the weight clicking itself back to its starting position, doesn't even hear the grinding sound that always seemed to swallow the whole facility from every side. She feels the pulling in her head as the doctors adjust her implant for the next experiment, but she can't find the will to struggle._

_She sets her mind's arm down and waits for the next order._

Jack awoke with a start, catching a terrified cry before it could leave her throat. The smell of her own fear seemed to cling to her, and her nose wrinkled with disgust. Instinctively she tried to move, even as her restraints cut into her neck and wrists. Trapped. She was trapped. She was going to die. She kicked out uselessly, straining against the steel holding her back. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

It took several seconds of muted struggle before she felt her energy evaporate and she stilled, hanging limply from her bindings like a doll. Her muscles burned with exhaustion, crying out for rest even while they twitched in place. Jack gulped painfully around the collar on her neck, listening to her trembling arms shaking the manacles. Her heartbeat slowed.

Her cell. She was in her cell. Or, rather, she was in _a _cell that Kuril had loaded onto the back of one of his little petting zoo ships and landed on some planet to intimidate the locals. The details swirled as they reappeared in her memory. Lieutenant Arbaros and the rest of Kuril's little stooges had rounded her and the rest of Purgatory's more intimidating inmates up for a little house call on the asari. The burn from the tasing-gun on the back of Jack's neck still lanced with pain, and she scowled. Fuckin' pansy ass guards outnumbered her ten to one and they were still too afraid to come into the cell unless she was half electrocuted to death. Little bitches.

She frowned as she watched her breath curl in front of her. They'd made planetfall but the chill of space still clung to the darkened room. Muffled voices came from outside – no doubt the warden arguing with some port authority or another.

Jack winced as the last of the flashback left her. She was the all-powerful bitch, _not_ the little girl.

Fucking nightmares.

As usual, Jack's head swam with agony. Physical and psychological pain swirled together until they were indistinguishable, just a dull ache that was her constant companion. Her mind was a maelstrom, a pile of psychosis after psychosis with her great, spidery implant sitting at the top, its wiry legs pulling through every part of her brain. It throbbed, the same low glow of pain that she'd felt ever since Kuril had managed to activate the safety locks Cerberus had left in her head and robbed her of her biotics. She wished furiously that she had her biotics back – at full strength she could tear Purgatory a new sally port with her eyes closed – but no matter how she strained the spider remained quiet. Still, every time she thought she'd gotten used to it she'd feel a great, fiery jerk that hurt so badly she saw spots, as if her implant wanted to remind her it was still alive.

Still there, just sleeping. Biding its time. For now.

Just like her.

Jack stared around the cell with practiced eyes. She knew it was a long shot, but on the ground she had a better chance of escaping than up in space. Kuril rarely took many guards on these trips of his – he wanted to emphasize just how very dangerous his prisoners were.

Still, it wouldn't be easy. The entire cell was designed to be removed and carried by freight crane in one enormous piece, with no obvious weak points. And whatever she did, she'd have to do it quick. The cells were kept on the ship's back, exposed to the vacuum, so even if she managed to get a hole started if she wasn't out by the time the ship took off for its return trip to Purgatory, the only place she'd escape to is deep space.

And even if she _did_ escape, what would she do then? The asari were stupid, self-righteous bitches but they didn't screw around about protecting themselves from other races. Add that to the fact that so few non-asari lived in asari space and she was looking at very poor prospects indeed.

And her head _hurt._ It was a bad day for standing up, let alone escaping.

No matter. Keep looking. In the corner was a mounting for some kind of automatic water dispenser, a remnant from the days when Purgatory and its accessories were part of some kind of intergalactic space zoo. Perhaps that could be broken through with the right application of force. Possible. Keep looking.

Jack licked the sweat from her lips and tried her best to control the shudders. Her arms were shackled behind her back (latched to what she was certain had once been a feed trough, like she was some kind of fuckin' cow or something), but she could feel them spasming in the dark, shaking her manacles so hard they cut into her wrists.

She closed her eyes as tightly as she could and tried not to think about the person who had done this to her.

It didn't work.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," she growled.

In the next cell, an eye opened in the darkness, its shiny gray tapetum reflecting the meager daylight coming from the crack between the cells. The krogan's black slit pupil surged as it landed on Jack.

A basso voice came echoing through the linked life support systems. "Kill me?" it asked, amused. "Kill me?" Jack glared daggers through the tiny window that connected them. She heard the clink of the krogan's heavy chains and the thud of its footsteps as it plodded closer, its slate eyes staring down at her. "Not so nice thing to say," he said, grinning widely. "Not so nice, not so nice."

Jack stood up as straight as she could manage, chained to the wall as she was. She would not be weak in front of this creature. "I'm not nice."

Platte Gottt rumbled with laughter, causing his dewlap to waggle beneath his scarred chin. "Platte think very nice, very nice," he said, giving her a lecherous smirk. "Jack is Platte's little asari, yes? Platte nice to you, you nice back." He stuck out his enormous pink tongue. "_Very_ nice."

"I'm not an asari you dumb fuck," Jack snarled.

Platte still looked amused. He shrugged. "Could tattoo frills on," he said, looking her over. "Still space on the head. Or maybe lovely Gurshki, label you mine. Mine."

Jack felt her temper climb at the thought of blocky krogan letters on her scalp. Her sweat-slicked fists clenched behind her back and she felt the tickle of mass effect fields in her head. She imagined Platte's self-satisfied face being ripped in half by a well-placed blast, but with her implant turned off she could barely push him over, no matter how angry she got. "I'm not yours," she spat, twisting at her restraints like a speared fish.

Platte stared impassively at her. He was a mountain of meat – large even for a krogan – and the way his hump loomed overtop his blue-crested head was testament to just how well he ate, even in prison. His eyes were dark and beady, his face a map of scars, with two great gashes over his eyes that made him look like he was constantly astonished by everything that happened around him. Combined with his habit of distractedly repeating everything he said like a lunatic and Platte came across as one dumb fucker.

But Jack knew all too well that that was a dangerous underestimation – Platte was anything but stupid. As by far the largest prisoner on Purgatory, he was a force to be reckoned with in prison politics. In Purgatory, anyone who stepped out of line was liable to get shanked in short order, but with his armored skin and hardy constitution, Platte simply couldn't be touched. A stab wound would heal in a matter of hours, long after he'd torn the stabber limb from limb. The few dozen attempts on his life had all ended the same way, and the inmates had long since resigned to his rule. Platte had taken full advantage of his invulnerability, using it to gain a monopoly of the prison's contraband ring. Even the guards knew not to touch him (in fact, many of them were arguably more on his payroll than on the warden's), letting his various infractions slide in exchange for his help browbeating the rest of the prisoners into good behavior. As long as he remained helpful and didn't interfere with Kuril's business, Platte could do what he wanted. He really was the king.

And he had thing for asari. And as the Thessian Council insisted on extraditing all asari prisoners to their homeworld to be dealt with internally, Jack was the closest thing to an asari on Purgatory.

Lucky her.

"Mine," Platte repeated, staring lustily at her. "Your human drug make you mine, mine, mine." Jack's eyes narrowed in rage as the krogan thrust a hand inside a pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a tiny bag. "Just need time to remember, yes yes yes?" Platte asked, grinning smugly as he poured the heroin powder on the floor.

Jack let out a strangled cry. "You stuttery fucker," she said, teeth clenched in fury as she searched her vocabulary for a worse insult. "You… you… _fucker_!" (Oh well.)

Platte grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Biotic head hurt maybe?" he taunted, stepping in the spilled opiate. Jack's eyes bulged in their sockets. "Need human drug to get rid of pain. Platte only way to get it. Only way, only way, only way. That make you his."

Jack stared despondently at the spilled powder. Just the sight of it made her jitters worse, and the pain in her head surged anew. She hadn't had a hit in days, and even that had been the fuckin' watered down shit she'd beaten out of Bimmy. To see the _real_ stuff… It almost killed her. Some part of her demanded she make peace with the krogan, do whatever sick thing he wanted from her now, just for a taste. She _needed_ it.

But what he'd done…

_Her weekly shower is cold but it is one of the few pleasures in her life. She doesn't care that the guards see her, doesn't care that she's tied up. The feeling of water on her skin feels like freedom, feels like the day she escaped._

_But today her guard opens the door and Platte is there. The self-proclaimed king of Purgatory towers over her as he calls in his goons – other prisoners and guards, their loyalties bought with contraband or violence. She knows why he's here, but he tells her anyway. It's not about sex, he says, it's about who is king (king, king, king). He tells his minions to begin._

"_Not even going to untie me?" she demands as they start for her, and Platte stares at her in silence._

"_Leave tied," he says, and she stares back. "Leave tied."_

_Seven human men versus one shackled woman. Even without her implant, even tied to the shower she is a terrifying force. Water and blood flies in every direction, and two are dead before they can touch her. But only two, and the others have her._

_Platte watches_

The spilled heroin vanished from her mind.

"Everyone else that was in that shower is dead," Jack threatened, glaring up at the krogan with renewed hatred. Her mind was awash with brutal memories – the look on her traitorous guard's face before she broke his neck, the sound of one of the rapists crushed behind the cell loading arms, the way Platte's second in command had pleaded for his life before she'd delivered the final blow.

" Not Platte's problem if Jack kill. That risk they took mess with Jack," Platte said, unconcerned. "They just want taste of Jack, Platte want to send message, win win for both, win win for both. Jack free to kill. Jack not depend on them. Not free to kill Platte." He shook his broad head. "You play nice, Platte give you drug back. You remember Platte king, Platte king, Platte king."

"It's just you and me now," Jack said, ignoring him. "You're the _last one_. I could rip your head from your fucking shoulders. How long do you think you'll last after I get out of here? I'll tear your balls off and feed them to you."

Platte shrugged. "Go ahead. Not work so well. Not so well." He chuckled.

The krogan turned at the sudden screech of the loading cranes. Their cells gave a great lurch – the warden was offloading them.

Platte turned back to her. "Time for action, yes yes?" He said, grinning down at Jack's furious face. "Kuril show his petting zoo, we look scary, he get money. We go back and do again and again and again and again. Maybe you be good asari for me again, hmm? Maybe give Platte what he wants, maybe Platte give what you want. Win win, win win."

Jack's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

–

_Rule One for Not Getting Fucked Over: Everybody wants to kill you. Their mistake. Kill them first._  
_Rule Two: Everybody wants to think you're weak. Their mistake. Kill them._  
_Rule Three: Who needs a fuckin' rule three?_

Jack pretended to sleep, but she heard everything. She was an ambush predator, a spider in a web. A scared little girl who just happened to be able to tear you apart with her bare hands. Unnoticed until it was too late. It was a skill she'd honed her entire life, a way to keep surviving. Crawl down into the darkest, quietest hole you could find and wait for someone to try to fuck you over.

Then kill them and leave their corpses by your hole as a warning. I am _not_ a fuckin' scared little girl.

Kuril wouldn't fall for it – he was a two-bit bitch but he'd had her long enough to know what sort of trouble she could cause – but she'd learned more than once that luck favored the prepared. Maybe the guard sent to check on her would think the constant electrocutions were finally too much for her. A half second of hesitation might be all it'd buy her, but it might be all she'd need (in fact, it took less than a _quarter_ second to slam a guard's mandible up into his brain – she'd checked). And so she hung silently even as the ship's cranes unloaded her cell block from where it was latched to the craft's back. The sound of frost-encrusted pistons thundered in her ears, all but blotting out the sounds of a bustling asari metropolis. She felt her cell shake as it was set upon the ground.

Kuril's voice was easy to pick out amongst the tumult. "I assure you," he drawled, "It's quite legal under Citadel law. Purgatory operates as an independent correctional facility covered by statute four-one-four-one-five-eight. In the event that I cannot support my prisoners, I am obliged to turn them over to the nearest council race planet." Jack could hear the smug grin on his face. "Allusus just happens to be the nearest such planet."

"And if we refuse?" a second voice asked. Shrill. Self-important. Asari. Jack sneered despite herself. Bitches.

"If you cannot provide for the prisoners I unfortunately must unload them in a manner and place of my choosing."

The voices came closer.

"This is ridiculous. This is blackmail!" the asari port authority said, offended. "Allusus is an isolated polity and sovereign planet under the decree of the Thessian Assembly! You can't just enter asari space and dump criminals on us!"

"I can provide all the legal forms on request," Kuril insisted, utterly calm.

"These aren't even asari prisoners!"

"No. No they aren't," Kuril agreed. Jack creaked open one eye for a moment, to see Kuril and a black-clad asari stop in front of Platte's cell. The asari was some government employee or another – as evidenced by her badge – but all the same her elegant robe glittered with a dozen different jewels. So it was a rich world, then, maybe even an asari core world. "As I've been reminded again and again by your beloved assembly, I am forbidden to hold asari prisoners." He tapped confidently on the bars to Platte's cage. "But tell me, do you recognize this one?"

"No," the asari insisted, frowning and crossing her slender arms across her chest. Jack watched her without moving. She would never admit it aloud, but she'd always found asari somewhat enchanting to watch. There had been so few girls back at the facility where Cerberus had raised her – she'd lived until her teens comparing herself to all the male staff thinking herself a singular freak – and so when she'd finally escaped and seen one of the elegant blue aliens that looked so much like her she'd been star-struck. Even after learning that all asari were self-involved bitches, she still hadn't lost it.

"You have me to thank for that," Kuril said smoothly, turning to the asari. His voice was the perfect gentleman's, and it almost made Jack wretch. "This is Platte Gottt."

"Goh-tuh-tuh-tuh," Platte corrected with a rumble, staring hungrily at the asari.

"Sterile krogan male. Some millennium or two old," Kuril said, ignoring him. "No prospect for offspring of his own, so he turns his tastes towards you asari. Doesn't care about the mind meld, just the power. Exactly how many maidens he's raped and killed so far I don't know, but believe this," he looked dramatically at the asari, "he's been doing it for longer than you've been alive."

The asari looked flustered, and stared at Platte with a new revulsion. The krogan was doing his part, licking his lips with his broad tongue. "Well, that may be, b-"

"Tuchanka won't pay for him," Kuril interrupted. "No cut in their plates what he does to you."

"I can't just-"

"And this," Kuril said, continuing to Jack's cell, "this is Jack. Human female. Petty criminal, murderer. Has killed her way across the scummier parts of the galaxy for a decade or so. Official records are pretty spotty, but she got pulled in adrift in a cruise ship. She'd killed everyone aboard. Seventy-four people. Half of them practically liquefied."

"She's a biotic?"

"Like you have never seen, matriarch or otherwise." He rocked back on his taloned haunches, chest puffed out. "You see, ma'am, the Suns take in some very unusual prisoners. Prisoners that require… unique facilities. Platte here can bend a smoke alloy bar as big around as your neck, and Jack can do it without touching it. I understand your hesitance, but believe me, _no one _wants these two on their planet. Taking them in as I have… it's a favor to the rest of the galaxy, in a manner of speaking."

"I fail to see-"

"Very well," Kuril interrupted, and casually summoned up his omni tool. "I am sorry, but you have forced my talons." There was a click, and Jack felt the clamps drop from her body. The cell doors thundered open.

For a minute her eyes widened in shock, then she was in motion.

Bad day to escape.

(Bide your time.)

But good day for some revenge.

She was out like a shot, diving straight past Kuril and the astonished asari for Platte, a furious cry on her lips. The krogan outweighed her by five or six times, but was so caught off guard he fell easily, tumbling to the floor of his cell in a heap. Jack shouted her throat raw as she pounded on him, infusing her fists with as much biotic might as she could muster without her implant's help. Even unarmored his flesh was like steel and Jack felt her knuckles split as she struck, but she didn't care. She just wanted him dead. Now.

Jack felt Platte's thick fingers wrap around her throat, then weightlessness as he effortlessly hurled her off. She tumbled painfully onto the landing pad, listening to his approaching footsteps as swarms of hovercars sped overhead. Asari on the pad were in a panic (Kuril had casually stepped aside to watch the fireworks with a bored look on his face).

"Very foolish!" Platte rumbled, bulldozing over an asari civilian who'd stepped in to stop him with her biotics. "Very, very foolish!" He thundered towards Jack.

Jack rolled to her feet and dove past him just in time. His heavy feet cracked the polished tile beneath them as he stampeded past. Jack's mind changed tracks and she sprinted back towards the cells. She could hear him thundering after her as she leapt for the latches hitching their two cells together. Her hands worked quickly, wrapping around one of the holding pins – a two foot metal stake – and with a biotically-infused jerk she tore it free.

She turned, pin upraised, just in time for Platte to sandwich her up against the cell. He struck her like a runaway train, smashing her head up against the metal so hard she saw stars. She swung the pin for his face but it was too late, and her wrist landed harmlessly in his hand. His fingers closed around her with a crushing grip.

Jack let out a pained cry as he squeezed.

He leaned in close, his gray eyes flickering.

"Not a nice asari, Jack," he said, his rancid breath curling across her neck. He squeezed tighter, and Jack thought she could feel her bones break. "Forgetting who is king again. You ever want drug again, you drop pin now." She glared daggers at him, ignoring the screaming in the background, the urgently approaching footsteps of the spaceport's security force. "Drop now, drop now," he repeated.

She dropped the pin.

Platte was grinning victoriously at her even as the security forces turned their tasing-guns on him.

–

The sound of the ship taking off thundered in Jack's ears, but not half so loud as the rush of battle. Her hands were dripping blood, her wrist already so purple from where Platte had grabbed her that she couldn't see her tattoo, and the asari security force had been none too gentle as they'd tossed her back in her cell and clamped the restraints back over her bruised body, but she felt better than she had in days. Her head felt lighter, more content. The omni-present itching for her next hit, the never ending ache in her brain, both had dropped to a smolder beneath the delirious joy of the fight.

"Is funny," Platte rumbled, barely audible over the wind howling through the space between their cells and the way his cell shook as the ship left the atmosphere. Jack turned to regard him, an uncharacteristic smile on her face. Platte grinned back at her. "Is funny to Platte that Jack not try to escape. But not surprising. Not surprising."

"I'll escape when I'm ready, Goat-t-t fucker," she said.

"Nah," Platte insisted, waving a hand. "Funny to Platte, but not surprising. Jack want to escape, but Jack can't. Jack can't leave Platte. Needs drug. Needs Platte. Wouldn't try to hurt him, not really. Never hurt Platte, never never never."

"No?"

"No. Jack mine. Platte's little asari. Couldn't live without him. Couldn't stab him. Never never."

Jack's smile widened, revealing blood-stained teeth. Something in it must have resonated in Platte, for he cocked his head to one side.

Platte _wasn't _stupid, after all. But he was doomed. _Nobody_ fucked with Jack. Rule two, bitch.

Jack reached out with her biotics. Without her implant it was hard to aim, hard to form a cohesive field, but somehow she knew she could do it. Platte's cell gave a rumble. "Trying to hit Platte? Have not learned?" the krogan asked. Jack did not answer.

There was a ping as the other latch pin popped out of its socket of its own accord. Platte's enormous eyes turned to follow it as it slid through the cracks and fell, disappearing into the clouds beneath them. It finally dawned on him.

"Wasn't trying to stab you, dumbass," Jack said smugly as she turned her concentration. Platte's cell began to slide, inch by inch.

"Wait!" Platte shouted, staring fearfully at the slowly widening gulf between their cells. There was a hiss as their linked life support loops separated and closed off. His voice was hard to make out, even shouting at the top of his lungs. "Wait, Jack! You would not hurt Platte, would you? Platte nice! Nice, nice!"

Jack continued to push. The wind grew louder and louder as the planet shrank beneath them.

Platte frantically patted at his suit for a moment. "Can get your drug for you!" he shouted. "More drugs! Anything you want! Make you queen! Queen of Purgatory!" The ship gave a lurch and Platte's cell veered sharply to the side. He let out a bark of alarm. "Jack would like to be queen, yes?" he asked desperately, pounding on the window and staring at her with pitiful eyes.

"You never got it, did you, you dumb lizard?" Jack asked, grinning at him. "I _am _the queen."

"Please?"

Jack gave one final push.

"Fuck off."

–

Jack was in space before Platte's cell hit the ground, but she felt like she could hear the crash all the same. The sound kept her warm all the way back to Purgatory.

–

_36 hours later…_

–

Purgatory was a cold place. More a space station than a conventional ship, its slow pace and sprawling construction made for slow heat transfer and a terminally uncomfortable temperature. The cells had all been outfitted with heat lamps back when they were for the transport of animals, but now that they were for the transport of _people_, the sockets were empty and dark. A permanent chill settled on the prisoners and never, ever left.

So why was Jack so _fucking_ hot? The sweat seemed to pour off of her exposed skin, slicking her wrists inside their chains and making her pants cling to her uncomfortably. A steady _drip, drip, drip_ from the tip of her nose threatened to drive her even more insane than she already was, but no matter how she shook her head, she couldn't seem to stop its metronomic tattoo.

Jack shuddered in place, her head full with uncomfortable flashes, her eyes brimming with unbidden tears. The rush she'd felt attacking Platte had dissipated and the cravings were back in force, wreaking their punishment on her tortured body. Her head felt like it was boiling within. She hadn't slept a wink. Some part of her still tried to celebrate that the krogan had died, but that part was being rapidly buried under all the pain.

She heard approaching footsteps but could not find the strength to lift her head from where it hung. There was a screeching sound as her cell was opened and two pairs of armored turian feet entered her view. Jack's vision swam, but she knew the Gray Warden Kuril and his brown-beaking lieutenant Arbaros when she saw them.

She wished she could spit at them, cuss, something, but her body did not obey her. It shook in place but moved no more.

"Here she is," Kuril said slowly. Arbaros muttered some noncommittal agreement, but otherwise the two aliens were silent, simply watching her.

Jack took a deep breath. "D-did you scrape up your krogan boyfriend-d-d's remains y-y-yet?" she asked, trying to sound taunting.

Kuril just stared down at her with a mildly disgusted look on his face. He tried to act unruffled, but even in her condition she knew she'd dealt him a terrible blow. Platte had been of invaluable assistance to him and his guards, not just in intimidating cooperation out of the other prisoners, but also in trading information. The great reptilian pervert had had a long life and sharp ears and an uncanny ability to ferret out who might pay the most for each prisoner. A loose mouth on Purgatory inevitably ended with Platte, and the krogan had helped Kuril match dozens of inmates to the people they had wronged the most.

And now he was dead. Killed by Jack.

Kuril's disapproving gaze washed over Jack's form. She writhed about on the floor of her cell, her tattoos slithering across her back, her limbs shaking out of her control. Her screwed-shut eyes and the way she moaned through gritted teeth spoke of a pain that transcended the species barrier. But even in the throes of heroin withdrawal and with her implant dormant in her head, the static spikes fluttered around her cell like swarms of angry bees.

"To think," Kuril said, stooping down to her level as another feather-light biotic wave washed over him, "When we first brought her in she killed Captain Bragus in a single hit. We had to beat her senseless so we could get her through the sally port without her causing a hull breach." He shook his head. "A creature so powerful, brought so low by a little white powder. Humans for you, I suppose."

Behind him, Arbaros nodded. "Yes sir. I found her crying in her cell this morning. Looked even worse than this."

"Fuck you, bird," Jack muttered from the floor. "Wasn't crying."

"Of course not, Lieutenant," Kuril said, amusement clear in his voice. "She was celebrating! With Platte dead she's the top predator around her." He stared mercilessly at her with his predatory eyes, even as she seemed to be trying to fold her way through the floor. "Of course, she thinks she's safe now. But she doesn't know what I know."

Jack's eyes widened. With considerable effort, she managed to lift her gaze up to meet the turian.

"The f-f-fuck does that mean?"

"Luckily Platte and I had some interesting talks before she splattered him all across Allusus' northern hemisphere," Kuril said, grinning smugly. His mandibles flickered. "He had some interesting things to say."

"What were those, sir?" Arbaros asked emptily.

"Turns out little Jack _does_ have a family that wants her back."

Jack's eyes widened in genuine fear. _Oh shit._ In the year or so she'd been here, Kuril had thrown every trick in the book at her to try and force her cooperation. He'd tortured her, starved her, beat her, everything he could think of, but she'd endured it all with a laugh. _Nothing_ he'd ever done to her compared to where she'd come from.

And they wanted her back.

"I… _don't_ leave families," Jack said, scrambling raggedly to her feet.

Kuril's mandibles flexed. "Ahh, but they never leave you, Jack. Turns out Cerberus has missed you."

_Cerberus…_ Just hearing the name brought a foul taste to Jack's tongue. Cerberus. The fuckers who'd done… _this_ to her. Who'd made her _this._ Who'd taken her away from the real world to grow up in a fuckin' _lab._ They were still alive. Thoughts of revenge and abject fear jostled for position in Jack's head.

Fear jostled harder. They were going to take her _back._ She wasn't ready. Couldn't face them, not yet. Not like _this_, with her body shaking, her implant asleep.

Jack started to scream. An energy that moments before would have been exhausting infused her limbs and she thrashed and roared and lunged for the warden with all her might. It wasn't enough. Her chains jangled loudly but held firm, and the turians stood by, unconcerned.

"Put her in cryo."

* * *

_Three weeks later…_

–

_Entry 4080, __**(censored), **__primary specialist Dr. __**(censored)**_

_S0__responding to __**(censored) **__in accordance with predictions. Direct element-zero injection into motor neurons resulted in nodule accumulation at injection sites 3, 5, and 7. As in earlier subjects, some inflammation occurred, but immunosuppression regimen suggested by Dr. __**(censored) **__protected S0__from any permanent damage._

_Initial track-weight experiments calculate an average forward biotic field of 213.43 alleyne units, a 4.1% increase over __**(censored). **__During experimentation S0 focus visibly impaired, lost consciousness and had to be chemically revived three times. Dr. __**(censored) **__speculated these difficulties may indicate lasting brain damage from S0's__unsuccessful implantation surgery on __**(censored). **__Over-ear-implant has restored hearing to right ear but possible damage was more extensive than initially believed._

–

Dr. Chakwas set the datapad back onto the benchtop, catching a sigh behind her teeth. The medical reports Miranda had supplied on Subject Zero were hard to stomach, sometimes. Thousands upon thousands of entries describing in detail the destruction of a young girl's life in the name of military might. It was sickening stuff.

She rubbed at her aching forehead with the heel of one hand. There were times when she wished she had stayed on Mars. Not many, of course – she knew her place was beside Shepard and Jeff – and yet she could not help but miss the months on the red world where the worst cases she'd had to treat were coughs or broken ankles. It had been boring, she supposed, and yet after so many years treating bullet wounds, fuel burns, and biotically-shattered bones, it had been refreshing to see that some people in the universe still managed to go a week without running afoul of a krogan or giant geth or malevolently-possessed turian endoskeletal armature or what have you. There _was_ peace out there.

Of course, there was only peace because of people like Shepard. That was what kept her going. If Shepard needed her to read hundreds of pages of notes on torturous biotic experiments, then by God, she would.

She picked up the datapad again and clicked to the next entry. Whoever had operated on Subject Zero had kept incredibly detailed notes, not counting the censoring throughout. It was all tidy and complete, good science if there ever was (when she'd shown it to Mordin he'd been enormously impressed), even as it dryly explained cutting out parts of a teenage girl's vertebrae to fit increasingly large experimental implants, drilling electrodes into her brain, and systematically breaking down any chance at a normal psyche she had. Chakwas grimaced as she read it.

She hated that she'd seen work like this before. And she hated even more that the last time she'd seen it had been in data Garrus had lifted from the scientists experimenting on Corporal Toombs – Cerberus scientists. Of course the Subject Zero notes contained no reference to the shadow group, but Chakwas couldn't help but feel suspicious that Miranda had access to such comprehensive information on their next recruit. The Cerberus logo on her uniform seemed to burn at her shoulders.

"Frequency should be…" Garrus, standing on the other end of the hangar's workbench with Tali, stared myopically at his omni-tool display, "Thirty-one seventy-five." He tapped a few adjustments into the control panel of a signal box.

"Got it," Tali chimed back, her own fingers fast at work.

"Awful convenient that Miranda had a remote control for our little super biotic," the turian said, deactivating his omni-tool with a gesture and returning to the boxes of other restraint gear Shepard had acquired in preparation for Subject Zero. The three of them had been working on and off for the past few days to get the ship prepared for restraining and treating a possibly-unstable super biotic. Garrus and Tali had outfitted the starboard observation deck as a makeshift cell, complete with a reinforced door, a self-contained life support system, and a basic complement of medical supplies. They'd all agreed they'd prefer if Zero didn't need to be locked up, but the danger she posed to the ship was simply too great to be unprepared. The whole crew had been on edge for days, wondering what would happen when the woman finally appeared.

The wait was almost over. Shepard had boarded Purgatory an hour ago with only Jacob and Miranda in tow.

Of course, none of Shepard's old allies had approved of him going off alone with the Cerberus agents, but Tali had practically radiated worry since they'd docked. Behind her visor, the quarian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Convenient is _one_ word for it."

Garrus looked up. "You think it won't work?"

"Oh, it'll work," Tali said. "Biotic implants are just simplified eezo drives. They're easy. Kaidan used to let me take his amp apart to see how it worked." She sighed, staring at a hologram of Subject Zero's skull (courtesy of Miranda) and the wicked amplifying implants implanted within. "Back before he started taking his jackass pills, that is."

Garrus shrugged. "I'd still take the cuffs and guns any day. If implants are so easy to turn off, why doesn't everybody just carry one of these programs?"

"Because most implants don't _have_ an off function," Tali said. She pointed to the cluster of wires and prongs that clung to the base of Zero's skull. "Whatever this is, it's obviously experimental tech."

Chakwas looked up from her reading and sighed again. "The poor dear."

The two aliens – apparently having forgotten the doctor was even there – stared at her. "Dr. Chakwas? Don't tell me you feel sorry for her," Garrus said after a moment, one bony brow raised.

"I do," Chakwas insisted, staring unflinching up at the tattooed alien. She gestured to the datapad in her hands. "The poor girl was four when they started experimenting on her. She's had seventeen major brain surgeries. Been subject to ruthless psychological conditioning and thousands of druggings. Yes, Garrus, I feel for her. I'm glad Shepard has decided to help her."

"I apologize," Garrus said, bowing his head. "I did not mean to offend." The tall turian stared down at his taloned feet and Chakwas had to smile. Garrus was always so unfailingly polite, so afraid of misusing a human idiom and upsetting someone. Even the doctor, who knew him so well.

"Think nothing of it, dear," Chakwas said, waving one hand and returning to her reading. "I understand how turians feel about criminals. I only mean to say that it may not be entirely this woman's fault."

Garrus nodded, though he didn't look particularly convinced. He paused for a moment, clearly searching for the right words. "At least we're taking her away from Kuril," he offered eventually. "Her fault or not, I'd rather her be locked up on the Normandy than locked up with that fool. He's been making the turians look bad for decades, and Primarch knows we don't need any more of that after Saren. What a maniac."

"And Shepard went onto his ship, all alone with those two goons!" Tali huffed. Her movements were unduly forceful as she assembled a trio of large tasing guns.

"Eh. Kuril's a maniac but he should be smart enough not to mess with Shepard," Garrus said, unconcerned as he hunched over a pair of remote-activated mass field cuffs strong enough to hold down a krogan. "If the commander wants to leave us behind, that's his choice."

"It's a stupid choice. It's foolish!"

Tali's transparent worries aside, Chakwas couldn't help but agree. The thought of entrusting a known murderess to part of a mission to save the galaxy was already risky enough, but doing it with only the two Cerberus operatives in tow seemed a trifle foolhardy. She, at least, would have felt immensely safer if Shepard had kept his alien allies at his side. Still, Shepard was commander for a reason.

"Commander Shepard knows what he's doing," she said, interrupting the aliens' bickering. "He told us very clearly he did not anticipate trouble. Furthermore, Miss Lawson is the best biotic on board and a natural choice for restraining someone of Subject Zero's talents."

"'Miss Lawson' is a _tresh'ta shesh'tet_," Tali said (Chakwas didn't know what it meant, but couldn't help but grin at the quarian's animated ire. Ever the patient doctor, she'd held her tongue through two weeks of tending to Miranda's wounds, calmly enduring the XO's angry nitpicking about every medical move she made without so much as raising her voice, but she couldn't deny enjoying hearing her called every quarian swear word in the book.) "And Shepard's just taking her because he feels guilty for what happened on Horizon."

Chakwas nodded. "Of course he is. That's just his way." There were times when John Shepard acted tough, put on a mask to be strong for the men and women under his command, but Chakwas was one of the few who had seen his more fragile side. For a few worrisome hours after the team had returned from Horizon, when even Mordin and Chakwas hadn't known if Miranda would make it, Shepard had been an absolute wreck. It had been the same on the original Normandy when Kaidan's back was broken by a runaway geth, and again when Garrus had nearly died, and it was the same with Miranda. Shepard cared. "And as terribly foolish as that might sound to you or me," she continued, "believe me, it sounds even worse to him. He knows the risks, and he will do what he must. We need to trust his judgment."

"I trust Shepard," Tali insisted quietly, head down. "But you still should have gone with him!" she said suddenly, rounding on Garrus again.

Garrus just rolled his eyes.

Chakwas grinned as she returned to her reading. She had joined Cerberus to be with Joker and Shepard, it was true, but it was hard to describe just how wonderful it was to have Garrus and Tali aboard as well. In her time aboard the _Normandy_ much of Shepard had rubbed off on Chakwas, but she'd come by her fondness of aliens on her own. Thirty years ago she'd been a bored, lonely doctor on Earth when First Contact was made and she was given a new life. Ten more years of schooling about aliens – it had made her family blanche, but she'd loved every moment of it. Chakwas counted herself among the many humans for whom the universe had opened up that fateful day. How wonderful not to be alone! In her time with the Alliance she'd met dozens of aliens who'd changed her life, who'd been friends to her in the realest sense, and Garrus and Tali were no different. Human or no, somehow they felt more like family than any of the Cerberus crew ever could. And it did Chakwas good to know Shepard had someone he could depend on when he was out breaking limbs for her to fix.

"Well," Garrus said after a minute, hefting up one of Tali's stun guns, "whatever Shepard thinks of Cerberus, he clearly doesn't trust this Zero woman to be as far as he could lift her." The weapon gave a deep thrum as he powered it on, causing flickers of light to course between its pronged ends. "This thing would put down an elcor, and we bought three of them."

"Makes you wonder why we're even recruiting her when we have to set up an arsenal just to…" Tali stopped in mid sentence, tensing up. Her helmet gave a few clicking whirrs before coming alight with scanning interfaces.

Chakwas looked up from her reading, curious, as the quarian turned around, scanning the empty hangar. "You alright Dear?" she asked.

"Yes, I…" Tali trailed off again, staring out into the empty labyrinth of crates stacked up in the cargo bay. She took a few silent steps. "I heard something." Her helmet continued to click and buzz like a mechanical bat.

"I didn't hear anything," Garrus said, cocking his head to one side.

"There it was again!" Tali squeaked, pouncing off towards the Kodiak. Chakwas and Garrus shared a look as the quarian disappeared from view. Technically, they knew Tali to have very sharp ears, but she'd been jumpy all afternoon.

EDI materialized at a nearby projector, casting a blue glow across their workspace. "All forty-two crewmembers are accounted for, Miss Zorah. None of my sensors detected any anomalous sounds above background signal in the past ten standard minutes."

"Thank you EDI," Chakwas said.

"You are welcome."

"I guess Tali really _is_ worked up," Garrus said finally, shrugging as he returned to his work. "She needs a hobby. Besides worrying about Shepard, that is. Good thing we're just about done here."

"I heard it!" Tali grumbled as she came storming back up to the bench. She looked nervously over her shoulder. "Someone is in here."

"All forty-two crewmembers are accounted for, Miss Zorah," EDI repeated. "Dr. Chakwas, Mister Vakarian, and yourself are alone in the hangar. Would you like to inquire as to the location of a specific crewmember?"

Tali ignored her. "I know what I heard."

"None of my sensors detected any anomalous sounds above-" EDI stopped mid-sentence. There was a long pause. "Resource allocation override. Please stand by."

Garrus raised one plated brow.

"The Commanding Officer has activated his emergency transponder. Cyberwarfare suites in use. Please stand by. Please stand by. Please stand by. Please stand by." There was a sudden tumult as an alarm klaxon started up, filling the hangar with echoing blares.

Seconds later, Joker's voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, turns out it's not all go-io in the Purgatorio. Shock of all shocks, Kuril's actually a bad guy! Shepard wants Crotchpunch Squad to board and start takin' names." Garrus, Tali, and Chakwas looked up at the loudspeakers with confused faces. "Grunt, Garrus, and Zaeed, that's you, let's go," Joker clarified. "Commander says no quarter. Everybody else, ready at your posts until further notice."

The alarms quieted as Garrus pulled his helmet over his head. In the windows above they could already see Grunt and Zaeed, guns drawn and suiting up on their way to the hangar elevator. It was only seconds before the ship was full of frenzied activity.

Garrus looked down at Chakwas and Tali. "So I guess I'm in Crotchpunch squad now," he said, his voice metallic and unnatural behind his heavy armored helmet as he drew his sniper rifle in one fluid motion. It extended fearsomely in his hands. "Not a bad name, really. Better than my old 'Honored Sartriviius Forward Gunnery Division', anyway."

Chakwas smiled wanly, clicking her datapad off. "I'll get my med-kit ready, shall I?"

* * *

–

Miranda ducked as another burst of assault rifle fire whipped over her head, shattering one of the smudged glass catwalk windows. Gunfire chattered from every direction.

They were lightly armed and outnumbered in the middle of a ship full of the galaxy's worst murderers and yet even as shards of glass rained down upon her, Miranda couldn't get her mind off of her hair. It was all she could think about as she popped up from her hiding space, took aim, and fired all in a fraction of a second. Her target crumpled as she dove back under cover.

It was just hair, she told herself. That's all it was. Nothing to get upset about. It was only hair.

Only about a foot of her previously flawless mane, hacked off by the scion's biotic warp. Only some hundred fifty thousand strands ruined at four credits per strand, only her hard-earned perfection marred for the month or so it would take her genetically-modified follicles to regrow. Only about a month of looking like… Chambers…

And _that_ was very much something to get upset about.

The perky yeoman had been begging for permission to style Miranda's newly-shortened hair for days, but Miranda had so far managed to hold her at bay. It was bad enough looking _normal_, she had no intention of looking like a harlot. As soon as Chakwas had finally released her from the medical bay she'd barricaded herself in her office and painstakingly cut her locks back to symmetry. Watching the fallen strands pile up on her sink had hurt worse than the broken bones.

She knew her mind should be on the mission (as a matter of habit alone, of course – she'd already plotted out and memorized every minute detail), but she couldn't help but find her thoughts returning again and again to the unusual lightness of her head. It wasn't childish or vain, she reasoned, it was practical – her beauty was part of her, and with it compromised she had just as much right to feel uneasy as Jacob would without his shotgun or Zaeed without a tall tale.

"You alright, Miranda?" Miranda snapped out of her trance in an instant, eyes flitting to Shepard's concerned face. The commander was hunched behind a bulkhead up ahead of her and Jacob, calmly replacing the sinks in his rifle as rounds flew past his head. Miranda was more than a little astonished to find her free hand had once again crept up to smooth down her hair. She dropped it in a flash, silently cursing herself for her inattentiveness.

"I'm fine," she insisted, frowning. As if to prove it, she leapt up and felled another mercenary with a neat shot to the neck.

It wasn't enough. "It's just hair, Miri," Jacob said from his own position. "You look fine. Stop messing with it."

"I'm not messing with it," Miranda hissed back, tossing him a venomous glare. "Would you two stop treating me like an infant? I'm _fine! _If we could all focus on the battle instead of my hair we'll be out of here in no time." She looked pointedly away from them until they turned their attention elsewhere.

She _was _fine, more or less, but it had been a close call. The husk scion's attack had diced through her like a molecular blade, cleanly cutting through bone and flesh alike. During one of the half dozen or so operations he'd performed on her, Dr. Solus had told her he'd run the numbers and estimated the scion's field's magnitude at at least eight hundred alleynes – more than six times the average human biotic's best effort and four times Miranda's. It was more than enough force to split steel – a fatal attack for the average human.

But of course Miranda was anything but average. The millions of credits of engineering that had gone into her had once again saved her life, mending torn sinew and skin a hundred times faster than a normal human. Mordin and Chakwas had had to install micro-struts on seven bones to help them find their positions, but a few surgeries and a week of bedrest and Miranda was back to her old lethal self. Even the scars were already fading.

Of course, that hadn't stopped Shepard and Jacob from coddling her. Both of them had made absolute nuisances out of themselves ever since Horizon, hovering over her with unwanted offers of help.

Technically, Miranda knew Shepard's attention was a good thing – she'd been astonished when she'd realized just how guilty the man felt over her injuries, and had known immediately that it was her chance to gain some of his trust. She'd even briefly considered the merits of playing up her injuries, but that thought had quickly passed. She didn't care _what_ the Illusive Man said, she wasn't about to play the damsel in distress.

But as much as she knew it helped her ultimate goals, something about Shepard's newfound care upset her. She'd lied and manipulated her way into the trust of dozens of people in Cerberus' name before without a second thought, but somehow Shepard was different. She knew he was only giving her a break because he felt guilty (about something that simply wasn't his fault – _she_ was the one who overlooked the husk and gotten hit during a critical mission), and found herself longing for something more genuine than that. She wanted Shepard to see her perfection, to respect her, to _want_ to trust her.

The man was stubborn, irrational, and depressive. He treated her – _her_ – like just another grunt, and not like the paragon of humanity she was. He was… unfair. And yet she wanted him to like her.

Ahh well. He'd invited her and Jacob to Purgatory, leaving his old alien comrades on the ship, as if to send a message of peace and trust. Miranda could see the way he kept stealing glances at her – as if he was expecting a blade in the back at any moment – but at least it was something. Progress.

"Sometimes," Shepard was saying between bursts from his assault rifle, "I wish that I could go somewhere where everyone was not secretly gunning for me. Just once!" He'd been talkative this mission – again, more a forced sign of cooperation than genuine camaraderie, but again, progress.

Jacob didn't seem to mind, and chuckled. "You and me both, Commander." He paused. "I got another heavy behind those beef bays."

Shepard turned to stare at him, confused. "Those _what?"_

Jacob pointed to a long set of metal cubicles mounted against the wall. "Beef bays. Fodder bays. Load up a cow in each bay, holds them in and keeps them from getting distracted while they eat."

"Huh," Shepard said. He stood and fired, causing Jacob's heavy to pitch over backwards, dead. "Cool."

Jacob shrugged. "Saw them a lot on the farms on my homeworld. We didn't think they were very cool at the time."

"Took it for granted, then, Jacob," Shepard said. "I'd _kill_ to live on a goddamn farm. I swear, when all this is over I'm going to find the most out of the way chunk of dirt I can and grow the biggest, filthiest beard the universe has ever seen."

Miranda rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. "Thank goodness I spent two years of my life on you," she said blankly. "I would hate to deny the universe its biggest, filthiest beard."

Shepard shrugged. "Don't knock it 'till you've tried it." He casually killed another guard who'd stepped up to throw a flashbang. "These guys wouldn't _dream_ of attacking me if I had an intimidating enough beard."

The last bullet fired and quiet overtook the catwalk. The three of them stopped and listened – muffled shouting came from the floors below, but of the dozen or so guards who'd ambushed them as soon as they'd broken their way out of outprocessing there was no sound.

Shepard sighed audibly.

"I apologize, Commander," Miranda said automatically, scanning the hall, gun still drawn. "I had considered the possibility of a betrayal attempt, but I assumed Kuril would be smart enough only to do it when we were in the cell blocks."

"Don't worry about it," Shepard said. "We already hit the emergency button. We'll just sit tight until EDI takes over the station and the big guns I asked for get here."

Miranda did a little mental calculation. Joker had promised to send his 'Crotchpunch Squad' straightaway, so with any luck they were already on the station. She had little doubt the combined talents of Garrus Vakarian, Zaeed Massani, and Grunt could beat their way anywhere in the ship they cared to go, given time.

But they didn't have time.

"Shepard, we can't risk it." Shepard looked at her, a confused look on his face, but Miranda pressed on for more reason than one. "Kuril is unpredictable. He may attempt to escape the station with Subject Zero."

Shepard looked dubious. "I don't think so. We can wait for the rest of the squad."

"Shepard. Subject Zero's brain alone represents more than forty_ million_ credits of cutting edge biotic research, not to mention her enormous combat potential. Can you _imagine_ what she could do in the wrong hands?"

Shepard's face fell. "Miranda…" He looked between the two Cerberus agents, his blue-gray eyes boring into them, the gears in his mind clearly turning.

It wasn't hard to guess where his hesitance was really coming from. Shepard's critical talent was commanding a squad, and where some commanders ran their units like a machine, he ran his like a family. He earned his allies' trust, got them to trust each other, and only _then _turned them into a weapon.

And he didn't trust Cerberus, and they all knew it. Defending a narrow chokepoint was one thing – he needed every gun he could get – but storming a fortified position took Teamwork. Coordination. Interdependence. "Shepard, you can trust us," Miranda said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "We can follow orders. We're on your side."

"I didn't say you were going to _turn_ on me," he said warily, not bothering to deny their implied accusations. Miranda's mind scrambled for an angle of attack. Deep down, she knew Shepard wanted their loyalty. He _wanted_ to believe everyone could be friends. But he didn't, not when he still saw them as terrorists, as bigots, as killers of the innocent. Shepard wanted peace in the galaxy, but he wasn't foolish enough to think it already existed.

"Shepard," she said, "someday we are going to find ourselves in a position where we can't wait for Vakarian. If we're going to beat the Reapers, someday you're going to have to find a way to trust Cerberus."

"We can do it," Jacob chimed in. "Please."

Shepard grimaced for a moment, eyes still searching for the answers on their faces. They looked at him expectantly.

After a pregnant pause, the Commander cocked his rifle. "Jacob, you take point. Miranda, rear with grenades. Let's get moving."

–

The facility had gone rogue, he'd said.

They'd used that excuse together so many times, she'd said. Did he really expect _her_ to believe it?

It wasn't what she thought, he'd said.

It didn't matter what she thought, she'd said, and the Man had reluctantly agreed. Miranda would do as she was asked, whatever it took.

But she didn't believe him for a minute. She saw all the signs, all the Cerberus fingerprints all over the reams of information the Illusive Man had sent her about Subject Zero and the Teltin facility. They'd tried to cut out anything overly incriminating, but Miranda saw through it with ease. Most of the time _she_ was the one doctoring documents to keep Cerberus in the clear – she wasn't about to be fooled. Whatever Zero was, Cerberus had made her that way.

And the Illusive Man regretted it.

It hurt, though, to know that he was keeping things from her. She was his loyal servant, complicit with him in some of the shadiest plots in history, actions that the public would never – _could_ never – understand were for their own good. For years she'd calmly carried out assassinations, torture, even terrorism at his command. He trusted her – and her alone – into his inner circle, used her brilliant mind as a mirror for his own, and between them they were humanity's best hope at survival.

But he didn't trust her with the full story behind Subject Zero.

He'd stared at her with gleaming eyes as she'd batted his excuses aside, one after the other. In the end he'd frowned but he'd let her do her job, an unspoken agreement between them not to talk about what he'd been trying to keep from her.

She knew why, even through the Man's unreadable expression. He worried Subject Zero's story would hit too close to Miranda's own, make Miranda question herself. Question Cerberus.

Question him.

She could hardly believe it. Did _no one _trust her?

Still, seeing Zero for the first time brought a chill to Miranda's spine.

"Wow," Jacob was saying, staring down through the window into the cryo-containment block. "_That's_ Jack?" Next to him, Shepard's face was grim.

"Affirmative," EDI – having since overwhelmed Purgatory's networks – confirmed from a nearby console. "Prisoner's life signs and implants match records for Subject Zero. According to ship logs, Subject Zero has been incarcerated cryogenically for twenty-two days."

The woman down below looked the part. Cryogenic incarceration was an old idea but a foolish one. Experiment after experiment had demonstrated that humans only lasted a few months under ice in all but the most advanced facilities, and primitive rat-trap cryo units like Purgatory's could cause permanent damage in only minutes. Subject Zero's tattooed skin was the black-purple color of a day old bruise underneath a layer of frosted sweat. Her breath was fast and ragged, wet with red-white mist at every exhalation. Her dark-lidded eyes were frozen shut, and her entire body convulsed in frantic shivering fits.

"Jesus Christ," Jacob was saying. "Is she going to be alright?"

"Affirmative," EDI repeated. "Thawing process is underway. Life monitors detect no grievous organ damage. Core body temperature rising to safe homeostatic levels. It is unlikely that Subject Zero will regain consciousness for at least thirty standard minutes."

As if she'd heard EDI's statement as a challenge, Subject Zero's bloodshot eyes bolted open in a flash. The monitors by Shepard's hand blipped frantically as her heartbeat surged. Microphones picked up her strangled cry of rage with terrifying clarity.

Miranda stared down at the struggling woman. For a fleeting moment, she felt her world crumbling. Cerberus had gone too far. Her heart felt for the creature below, trapped and terrified, captured inside of the pain that had been installed into her skull, the conditioning that had made her into an animal.

But that feeling passed. Miranda's sympathy bled away as the convict started spouting the foulest invective she'd ever heard. Words that would make Omega blanche. Miranda frowned. Cerberus hadn't done this. Experiments, perhaps. Painful surgeries, perhaps. But _this…_ Miranda refused to believe it. Cerberus hadn't forced her to cover herself with tattoos and kill her way across the galaxy. This woman had done it herself. She was a filthy wreck, imprisoned for strings of unnecessary murders, addicted and weak and furious. She deserved no pity.

"Commander Shepard," EDI said. "I can release Subject Zero on your command. Alternately, the entire cryogenic cell can be ejected and transported onto the Normandy. Mr. Vakarian's squad has moved past the main sally port into cell-block four, but has encountered significant enemy resistance. It will likely be twenty standard minutes before they can assist."

Shepard shook his head. "No time for that. What's Kuril's position?"

"Warden Antus Kuril is in cell-block two, attempting to quell the riots. He is well-armed."

Shepard nodded. "We'll pay him a visit. Do you have access to Zero's implants?"

"One moment." There was a pause. "Accessed. Subject Zero's implants are currently in maintenance mode. She will be unable to amplify any biotic fields." Shepard nodded, rubbing at his chin.

"You're not really thinking of turning her back on, are you?" Jacob asked.

"She'll be fine," Miranda snapped. "She's a bloody murderer, Jacob, not a child."

Jacob looked at her, confusion on his face. For a long moment, the three of them stood in silence, watching the convict rage against her captors.

At length, Shepard spoke. "Miranda," he said. "What's the Cerberus policy on repaying traitors like Kuril?"

"Immediately and entirely," she said.

Shepard grinned. "Then turn her on, EDI."

* * *

–

_She would never admit it aloud, but Davis has always been her favorite. He always ties her bed restraints just a little looser than everyone else. He always lets her walk for herself when she's able, doesn't just carry her. And his eyes were that oh-so-pretty shade that made her feel all melty and confused._

_He's also the first to die. In the confusion of the moment, he notices the unlatched cuff just a little too late. Zero's arm flies up to meet him and it's like a truck landing on his jaw. There is a flash of blue and Davis' head snaps back with an audible crack. He crumples, dead._

_Zero's restraints follow soon after._

Jack's heart threatened to explode from her chest as the thawing drugs coursed their way through her body. So… cold. So _fucking _cold. She could barely hear herself think over the chatter of her own teeth. Her skin screamed for mercy.

In front of her, three LOKI mechs watched impassively, oblivious to her pain. Their faces were blank, their enormous limb motivators still, but all the same electricity crackled in the air as they revved up their arm-mounted tasing-guns.

Jack tried to shout out but no words would come. Anger and fear seemed to dominate all thought and she managed a strangled, primal cry but no more.

_Zero is in top form today. She wonders if the doctors would be proud of her abilities even as she lifts one and tosses him through the concrete wall like a missile. Alarms blare in every direction. Rain touches her face as the ceiling caves._

There was a sudden click, somewhere behind her head, and Jack quieted. Her eyes flitted accusingly up to the catwalk above her cell – where even now she could see three murky forms watching her – before the pulling started. Her implant was awakening. She roared in pain as the hooks took hold, filling her thoughts with a heavy buzzing. She remembered this torture.

She welcomed it.

_Dr. Rodriguez is crushed under the weight he'd forced her to push so many, many times. Chela's head bursts like a grape, smashed from every side. Zero is flooded with pleasure. She takes the long way out, towards the staff dormitories._

Narcotics flooded Jack's brain for the first time in so very, very long, and her pain was replaced by euphoria. Her head lolled back on her neck, momentarily overcome.

_Fuck_ Platte and his heroin. _This_ is what she needed.

Then she remembered where she was. What had happened. What Kuril had said.

Cerberus…

The reassuring presence in the back of her skull pushed her nerves, and it was enough. Jack's restraints tore like tissue paper. The LOKIs made their move, but it was already too late. Jack dove into them like a hurricane.

_Now there is fire, thick oily fire that even Pragia's relentless rain cannot quench. Zero hears the screaming, smells the blood, and follows it like a shark in the water. She tears her way through the courtyard where the other children could play._

The LOKIs perished in a flash, torn limb from limb by the whirlwind of destruction that was Jack. Chips of shattered pistons and lost bolts fell like rain as the last of them crashed into the ground with a screech. Out of the corner of her eye Jack saw the three observers from above disappear, making for the door with their guns drawn, but she was too quick.

The wall couldn't stop her. Her brain flooded with pleasure as she reared up and, blue waves spiking around her fist, tore it down. Alarms blared so loud they threatened to burst Jack's remaining functional ear, but she didn't hear them. She tore into the cell block. She had to get away.

_The children turn on her. The guards turn on her. The gun turrets turn on her. Even the janitor._

_They all die._

Jack was a symphony of deadly motion as she swept into the cell blocks. Blue light plumed around her limbs. Tables – bolted to the floor – upended and flew across the courtyard where the less dangerous inmates exercised. Big, small – it made no difference to Jack. She lifted an unlucky prisoner and dashed his brains against the nearest railing. Others she just sent toppling away, ricocheting down the corridors like zero-g ragdolls.

The prisoners knew to fear her when her implant was _off_. Now that it was on, they were in an absolute terror, scrambling in all directions to escape her rage. She ignored their pitiful screeching, the way they pissed themselves in fear. For a moment she paused, surveying the destruction as she racked her brain for her next move. Cerberus was coming, and as much as she would love to meet the people who'd done this to her, she wasn't ready. She had to survive. Bide her time. Keep surviving.

She needed to get off of this fucking ship, and fast. That meant stealing an escape pod or something.

Her brain screamed at her, demanded she get back to the fight, and she complied. All her worries were smoothed over under bloodlust as she tore one of the cell-loading cranes from its base and hurled its end into one of the raised catwalks, sending shattered glass in all directions and forming a crude bridge to the upper levels.

_She leaves the Teltin facility, darting into the jungle without a backwards glance. Brambles pull at her flimsy medical gown, drawing blood in a thousand places, but she runs on. Her throat is raw from screaming, her skin bruised from the futile defenses of the other children. She's hungry, she's exhausted, she's terrified._

_And she's free. The rain falls in sheets, the chlorophyll smell fills her nose. She's free._

–

Jack skidded into the batarian mercenary knee-first, sending him scattering like a bowling pin. He crashed into the wall with a pained grunt and slumped to the ground. His turian companion was next, his blue-and-white helmet cracking under Jack's biotically-accelerated fist. She felt but did not feel his bladed lips cut her knuckles and his long canines bury themselves in her wrist. There was a satisfying spurt of blue-black blood and he was still.

She raged on, the thudding footsteps of her combat boots echoing off the empty halls in every direction. Her head thundered with a thousand thoughts. There were corpses everywhere – mostly guards – but only few were her own doing. Something was happening. Someone was killing off the prison staff. Maybe a prisoner riot?

Whatever it was, it was good news for Jack. More distraction to cover her escape.

A delirious smile stretched across her lips as she bounded on, her blood singing with the high of battlesong.

…Until she hurtled around a corner and smack into a great, towering wall of armor. She bounced off the krogan, landing painfully on her back on the cold steel floors. The krogan turned, an enormous shotgun in its hands, and stared down at her with icy eyes.

The krogan's gun thundered, but Jack was already gone. She rolled to the side with fantastic speed, swinging her foot in a low arc beneath the mighty reptile. Blue energy flared from her boot's toetip as it made contact, and the krogan – practically a thousand pounds of muscle, bone, and steel – crashed to the ground with a surprised howl. Jack followed up with a biotic push, sending him stumbling over the railing into the maintenance trench below.

She heard gunfire erupt. Only a split second barrier saved her – one bullet flashed to a stop just inches shy of her forehead. The blue-armored turian who'd fired it cocked his rifle and took aim again.

"Holy shit!" another gravelly voice shouted, this one from an old, scarred man. "Hold fire! That's her!"

"_That's_ Zero?" the turian asked. His gun barrel dipped in hesitation, just a few inches, but that was more than enough. Jack launched herself at him in a fury, striking him in the midsection. He doubled over in pain, rifle clattering to the floor.

"That's her!" the man repeated, holstering his assault rifle and pulling out a smaller weapon as Jack rounded on him. He took a wide stance, hands at the ready, mismatched eyes boring into hers. He'd fought biotics before.

It didn't matter. She hurled a wave of energy at him, lifting him up in the air before crashing him back downwards. He let out a snarl of colorful cursing (including a few Jack hadn't yet included in her own repertoire).

Jack yelped as she was knocked to the ground, sandwiched under the armored bulk of the turian. He leveraged his weight against her back, trying to pin her arms down against the floor. "Listen! Zero!" he shouted. "We don't want to hurt you!"

"Fuck that," Jack snarled, kneeing him in the groin. He rolled off of her in a painful heap.

The turian's voice was pained as Jack sprang to her feet. "EDI?" he grunted from the ground, "Think we could get that off button pressed sometime in here?" Jack reared back a fist, preparing to bring it down on the turian's head, when a calm feminine voice answered him.

"Of course, Mr. Vakarian. Subject Zero's implant returned to maintenance mode."

Jack's fist came down, but this time there was no blue flash, no spatter of turian bone chips. This time her knuckles slammed harmlessly down on his visor. She heard the sound of her fingers breaking with the force.

Jack howled in anger and surprise for a moment before the pain came. Her head exploded with agony as her implant retreated. Her high dissipated in seconds, leaving only suffering behind it.

And then the krogan hit. The alien's fist hit her temple with tremendous force, sending her slamming down onto the grating. Stars flitted in front of her eyes as the second blow connected, crumpling her nose.

"Grunt, grab her!" the turian was shouting, and Jack felt two powerful arms encircle her waist. She struggled through the fountain of blood streaming from her broken nose, flailing with her legs and desperately reaching out with her mind for some kind of hold, some way to escape, but the krogan's iron grip held solid. His skin felt like concrete under her fingernails. Each time she thrashed the alien squeezed a little tighter, until her eyes threatened to pop from her sockets.

The turian stood, panting as he pulled off his helmet, revealing a scarred face and glittering blue eyes. Jack could see the confusion on his face even through the river of blood covering her vision.

"Jesus Christ," the human was saying as he stumbled back to his feet, rubbing the fresh gash on his forehead. "No wonder Shepard wanted her."

The turian stepped forward, mandibles flicking. "We don't want to hurt you," he repeated. "We just want to bring you to our commander."

"Fuck you!" Jack snapped, spitting a bloody glob onto the turian's face. "Fuck Cerberus!"

The turian shook his head.

From behind Jack, the krogan's voice rumbled. "Are we _sure_ we don't want to hurt her? I could just squeeze and we could say the guards got her."

The turian rolled his eyes. "Right, Grunt. The guards got her and smashed her between their hands. I'm sure Shepard will buy that." He gestured down the hall. "Come on. We need to get off this thing before it goes down. We'll let Shepard deal with her."

"I'm not going anywhere with you Cerberus bitches!" Jack howled, still kicking futilely at the krogan's groin.

"We're not Cerberus. Listen to what Shepard has to say and maybe you won't go back into another cell."

"You're not… Cerberus?" Jack asked, voice quieting. Had Kuril lied to her? "Bullshit. What about Kuril?"

"Kuril's dead. Shepard killed him ten minutes ago."

Jack stopped struggling. Her eyes narrowed in thought. It could be a trick, of course. Could just be Cerberus in disguise. But if not… it was her ticket out of here. Whoever it was had the keys to her implant, anyway. She quickly came to a decision (and besides, it wasn't like she couldn't just turn on them later. Rule 2.)

"Fuck yeah," she said, staring at the turian, "then take me to him. I want to piss on that fucker's corpse."

The turian's mandibles flickered in disgust, but Jack ignored him. She craned her neck to try and look the krogan in the eye. "And you hit like a fuckin' girl."

* * *

_Two hours later…_

–

Subject Zero stared at him, and Shepard stared back.

The woman hadn't said a word since she'd stepped aboard the ship, other than a few choicer profanities about Miranda and anyone else she'd come across on her way into the darkest underbelly she could find. They'd given her a wide berth for a few hours before Shepard had sent Chakwas to see to her wounds. The doctor, stubborn as she was, managed to last all of ten minutes before storming out of the maintenance bay.

Now it was Shepard's turn.

He couldn't deny it – he was scared of Subject Zero. Somehow he felt comfortable rubbing elbows with monsters of the like of Garrus or Grunt, armored creatures who could snap his neck like a toothpick if they so chose, but when it came to the deadlier members of his own species there was a gulf of uncertainty there. Chalk it up to having seen humanity's cruel failures first hand, perhaps.

Zero paced restlessly around the room like a caged beast, her eyes never leaving Shepard's. She twitched and scratched at her bruised skin, snarling under her breath. She stank with blood and sweat and fluids Shepard didn't care to guess at, but none more than her restless anger, which seemed to press in from all directions.

"Are you going to say anything?"

"Already called you a fuckin' pussy," she said, prowling through the red emergency lights. "Not much more to say."

"Hmmm…"

Zero seemed to take his contemplative expression for something it wasn't, and rounded on him. "Don't try it, fucker," she said, waving a tattooed finger in his face. "Don't sit there and try to understand me."

"Alright," Shepard said, shrugging. "So then talk. Tell me what to understand."

"How 'bout 'we ain't got nothin' to talk about'? Only reason I'm here at all is for those fuckin' databases. Come back with those or get the fuck out of my face."

Shepard frowned. "I have Tali working on it, Zero. It'll probably take a few days, but trust me, if the information exists, she can get it."

"_Don't_ call me Zero," she snarled. "My name is Jack."

"Alright, Jack. I'll get you that information. I promise. But you're going to behave in the meantime."

"What am I going to do when you've got your finger on the fuckin' button?" she asked, gesturing towards her head.

"I don't see you as the sort of person who needs her biotics to be dangerous."

Jack actually smiled, and Shepard immediately knew he'd won some small victory with her. "Damn right, Shepard," she said, grinning evilly. "You cross me and I'll slit your fuckin' throat."

Shepard couldn't help but remember Zaeed's advice from a few weeks ago. He couldn't assume Jack would cooperate with him out of friendship. He had to speak her language. "You harm any member of my crew and I'll have the professor cut that thing out of your skull," he said. "Then we'll drop your brain-damaged ass right back in jail. Got it?"

Jack just scowled, but Shepard could see he'd hit the right note with her. "We done?" she asked, resuming her relentless pacing.

"Do you need anything else from me?"

"I'm guessing you're too boyscout to have any heroin on this ship, so I guess not. Get out." She flicked her bald head towards the stairs.

Shepard sighed, turning to go. "I'll talk to Mordin, see what he can cook up for you." He ignored the muttered obscenities he heard behind him as he scaled the stairs.

He was tired. Again. He'd come a long way since Freedom's Progress. He still wasn't back to the shape he was in before he died (Chakwas told him he probably never would be), but he'd made progress. He could run, he could fight, he could stay up and work without passing out. But it took it out of him. There was too much to do, and too few hours in which to do it. He needed sleep, and he only had a few hours until he had to start working with Garrus on a plan to find their next recruit, a drell assassin. He was so tired.

He frowned. Too bad. He'd beaten the grim reaper, and it had come with costs. If he wanted to beat the rest of the reapers, that'd come with costs too.

But two hours of sleep wouldn't hurt anything. He headed for the elevator.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?"

Shepard stopped in his tracks and turned to stare sheepishly at a very severe looking Dr. Chakwas, who tapped an impatient foot, bathed in the blue-white light of the ship's eezo core down the hall.

He looked longingly up the sairs. "My quarters?"

Chakwas 'tsk'ed, shaking her head. "Not until I've had a look," she said, ushering the commander to the nearest bench. "I swear, Commander, you have me fixing up every person in sight and then think I'm going to ignore this?" she indicated his hand, where one of the Blue Sun incendiaries had scorched his armor, burning away most of the delicate undermesh. "Sit."

The Hero of the Citadel knew not to argue with Dr. Chakwas and obligingly slumped down. He relinquished his hand to the doctor, who carefully peeled off his armored bracers and glove, revealing blistered skin beneath. "I swear, it isn't that bad, Helen," he whined.

"Don't you Helen _me_. I don't care if you _are_ a zombie, you can't just leave a burn untreated." The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol as she dabbed at his injuries with the corner of a recyclable plastic towel. "What if it had gotten infected? You'd be out of commission for days. You know we can't afford that. And when was the last time you slept?"

"Yes ma'am," Shepard said, hanging his head. "Sorry ma'am."

"That's more like it," she snapped, though Shepard could see the smile in her eyes. His blisters cleaned, she withdrew a roll of medigel-coated bandages. "Hold here." Shepard watched her as she worked, carefully unrolling the bandages with a rote precision that spoke of decades of experience.

"Is my biotic going to make it?" he asked.

"How should I know? The poor dear wouldn't let me near her. All I managed to learn was that I'm apparently a harpy-nosed hagbitch."

"She's sharp, I'll give her that," Shepard said, shrugging. Chakwas chose that moment to give the bandage a good tug, causing him to wince in pain.

"Well, as far as _this_ hagbitch can tell, she's as fine as we could hope," she said, voice falling serious. "A few broken fingers she'd probably best let me tend, but other than that, more or less intact. Though I can't say the same for her mental state."

Shepard sighed, resting his chin on his free hand. "I hope she pulls through. I can't have a person like that on this ship if she won't behave, even with Garrus and Tali keeping her implants offline." He shook his head. "She really hates Cerberus."

Chakwas smiled as she closed her medical bag and returned Shepard's glove to him. "Then at least you'll have something to talk about, won't you dear?"

Shepard grinned as she ascended the staircase, leaving him with his thoughts. Whatever he'd told her, he didn't know what he'd actually do if 'Jack' proved more trouble than she was worth. Probably call Anderson, see if he could find a place that could help her. Maybe even the Ascension program. Of course, after he'd called in the damage to Purgatory, he doubted if Anderson would be keen on doing him any more favors. The disabled prison ship was going to take an army to stabilize, and as they'd pulled out of the Osun system EDI's scanners had detected no fewer than forty ejected escape pods that would need to be reclaimed. Shepard didn't envy whoever had to clean up this particular mess.

But at least they'd gotten away with no serious injuries. Zaeed's split head looked pretty bad, but Chakwas had managed to force him to sit still long enough for a bandage and promised soon he'd be back to his old cheerful self.

Shepard rose to his feet and headed for the elevator, taking one last moment to stare seriously at Garrus, who stood, rifle ready, next to Tali's console, listening for a tumult from below that meant their new biotic had snapped. He felt bad giving Garrus _another_ ne'er-do-well to watch over, but the turian hadn't complained.

Tali, on the other hand…

Shepard shuddered. Ahh well, she'd forgive him. Tomorrow he'd order a search for the source of her mystery noises. He felt bad, he really did. The little quarian was only looking out for him. Still, if today was any indication she needn't have worried. Miranda and Jacob had followed his orders to the letter. They didn't have the easy familiarity that his old squad had won through months of ground engagements together, but they'd found his rhythm and settled in as best they could, and Shepard had to admit they'd made a formidable team.

He nodded, content, as the elevator doors opened to his quarters. The lights flickered on as he stepped inside, dropping his burnt gauntlet to the floor with a thud. The bed beckoned to him, and _nothing_ was going to keep him from it.

There was a deadly clicking sound and Shepard froze as he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel press up against the back of his neck.

"Don't move, Shepard."

He grimaced. Nothing but _that._

–

**

* * *

Codex entry: excerpt from Introduction to The Artist's Guide to Biotic Sculpture by Thomas Keynes, first published in Exotic Biotic Monthly, April 2182**

Let me be the first to welcome you to the fascinating world of biotic sculpture!

Humanity has come a long way since First Contact. In so many ways we are bigger, more sophisticated, and more intelligent than we have ever been. Collaboration with our galactic neighbors has led to unprecedented cultural growth, but in the field of biotics, it is easy to forget we are still newcomers.

I first encountered biotic sculpture in 2174, in my visit to Thessian-based Ampiria Technologies for a rare glimpse at the science behind asari amp manufacturing. While there, my patrons treated my companions and I to a bit of culture at the Nelgilia Hall's annual Jali gala. The display I saw there forever changed how I look at biotics.

Like most humans, we had spent years seeing movies about biotics, human and otherwise. We'd seen fictional action hero Duncan Trask biotically trounce evil armies with his bare hands. We'd played the video sims that put you in the shoes of an asari commando. We'd watched as Earth champion strength biotic Helga Desmond lifted a mid-size spacecraft on galactic TV. We knew what biotics were for.

They were for lifting heavy things. They were for crushing your enemies. In short, they were tools.

So imagine our surprise when we saw the Jali performance of some of the galaxy's most reknown biotics, strained to their talents' formidable limits without lifting so much as a pencil. Plumes of blue light trace most biotic fields. Before that day, myself and the other leading human biotics believed them just a side effect, just an artifact. But no more. The asari showed us, that day, that the coronae could be things of beauty, crafted into shapes beyond compare. We saw two asari summon an unmistakable likeness of the Thessian skyline in midair. We saw oceans, we saw deserts, we saw abstract swirls of form and volume that touched us in the deepest parts of our hearts. It was without question the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Naturally, we knew we had to introduce this art to our species. For years, now, we have been traveling the galaxy, interviewing the best biotic artists of several species, learning their techniques, their philosophy. Later this year, the first book in what we hope to be a series of advanced how-to manuals on biotic sculpture for a human audience will release, but for those of you with patience and luck, we've provided a quick starter guide right here. You can practice these techniques in the safety of your own home, and in no time you'll be creating beautiful blue paintings of your own!

**Disclaimer: This document was written with human biotics in mind. Though many of the concepts remain the same for non-human biotics, non-humans should consult their physicians before attempting any of the advice in this article.**

Biotic basics – For those of you uninitiated to the world of biotics, I wanted to start with a quick primer on the basic biology involved. In short, biotics for combat, art, or otherwise operate on the same principles as the mechanical mass effect fields used in dozens of modern technologies ranging from communications to spacecraft. Any mass effect field can be rationalized into three parts. 1) element zero – element zero's interaction with itself is the source of all mass effect fields. This rare material is still poorly understood, but when exposed to 2) a positive or negative electrical current over 3) a distance, element zero releases dark energy in a field around itself, negating or enhancing mass within. The magnitude of the current and the distance over which it flows control the shape of the resultant field, with larger fields requiring exponentially larger currents to produce.

So, as within an FTL engine, within a human biotic all three elements can be found. Element zero accumulates inside of discrete nodules along most neurons, consolidating due to its own self-attractive nature. When electrical impulses travel down these nerves, a current is provided across subsequent element zero nodes, producing a weak mass effect field.

Unlike in asari, most human nerves are highly branched and conduction along their lengths is a complicated process, only somewhat voluntary. Controlling one's biotics rests entirely upon controlling the precise activation and speed of nervous impulses, which is not always possible. To rectify this difficulty, human biotics depend upon 'physical mnemonics', simple muscular movements that can, with persistence, be subconsciously linked with the firing of certain nodes. Some of these mnemonics are shared across most humans, but most biotics end up having to discover their own set of gestures in order to build up the appropriate muscle memory.

This publication contains many fine articles on beginning and advanced biotic theory, which I recommend you explore if you are just getting started with biotics.

Biotic technology – Human biotic technology is already very diverse with multiple internal and external situations – along with augmentative surgeries – available, but all systems follow the same general principles.

Though element zero nodes in the nervous system provide the potential for very precise control over biotic fields (incidentally, exactly why completely technological biotic weapons have not been pursued with much enthusiasm), the currents involved are very weak, drastically minimizing the strength of produced fields.

To combat this problem, most human biotics used biotic amplifiers. Amplifier systems typically come in two pieces, a basic implant – little more than a mechanical translator that is surgically implanted onto the back of the brainstem in order to give easy access to the major nerves – and an external, removable amplifier. Most amplifiers work by sensing nervous impulses associated with biotic fields (again, usually by recognizing well-practiced mnemonics) and introducing a much stronger electrical current into the appropriate nerves for a few milliseconds. These stronger currents allow the production of more powerful fields. Amps of this sort are the source of the well-known static charge buildup on most biotics – excess charge tends to build up under the skin until it can be discharged. Amps primarily act to increase field strength – not accuracy – but high quality amps can contribute towards the latter as well by only enhancing the biotically-active nerves (and not, for instance, the rest of the nerves used in a given mnemonic). More advanced amplifiers enhance their users' accuracy and power even further with the injection of a harmless conductive fluid into biotically-active nerves, essentially laying down permanent 'wires' for faster electric propagation.

Other, more radical technologies for improving biotic strength or accuracy exist. The safest and most widespread of these are 'eezo suits', usually lightweight wire armatures worn outside the skin but beneath clothing. These suits are wired into the biotic's implant and contain carefully positioned element zero nodes throughout their lengths. When they read a biotic impulse from the implant, they produce their own current, and subsequently their own mass effect fields. Unlike conventional amplifiers, eezo suits do not actually alter the fields produced by the nervous system, but rather create sympathetic accessory fields – fields at the same shape and position as the primary field – to enhance strength. Eezo suits are safe and effective but tend to be prohibitively expensive for most biotics.

Surgical options have been explored by many companies and militaries to maximize biotic abilities as well. Element zero injection into the brain or spinal cord sometimes has a dramatic effect on field strength, but due to shift in node positions often requires a complete restart on biotic training and, more importantly, more often than not causes serious immunological side effects. More expensive and dangerous yet is neurosurgical eezo implantation, in which specially made element zero nodes are implanted into specified nerves to enhance field creation without risk of disturbing preexisting nodes. Some researchers are even experimenting with new implant/amplifier systems that exist entirely within the brain – sometimes in several pieces – and include powerful magnetic fields that can be tweaked remotely in order to rearrange eezo nodes into optimal orientation in the body. Theoretically node misalignment is the largest barrier to field strength and accuracy, and this technology thus represents a potentially enormous increase in biotic strength – but most doctors agree surgeries of this sort are unethical, and in fact legislation proposing the banning of these deep-brain implants is due to enter the courts later this year.

Measuring biotics – A quick note on the measuring of biotic fields. Biotic field strength is typically measured in Alleyne units, named for the famed asari biologist Alleynea Taris. Alleyne units are mathematically similar to Newtons of force, but are weighted to describe the accuracy of the force in 3d space. Most biotic fields may represent enormous forces, but the vast majority is wasted by fighting against the field's intended direction.

While many biotics go to enormous efforts to improve their maximum Alleyne capacity, this is generally not necessary for biotic sculpture. Clean, unidirectional fields may be the goal for strength or combat biotics, but biotic art is about manipulating coronae into beautiful shapes.

Continued…

–

* * *

**A/N:** Bum BUM BUUUUUM...**  
**

What's this! An update on a _reasonable_ time frame! Be still my heart!

Yes, it's true! I really wanted to get this chapter done for you guys. I hope you like it. It's been through some fairly major revisions to get to where it is now. In fact, my beta convinced me to cut a fairly large chunk of it (a few thousand words on Kuril) because it didn't contribute much to the story. I found this one one of the harder ones to write for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I've read Rock Steady, which does such a stellar job with Jack that I felt I really had to work not to just copy it. That's the main reason, as well, that I've taken a few more liberties with Jack than with other characters. In any case, I apologize for the somewhat... darker content of this chapter. It's not my usual plan to write about rape and use fuck every other sentence, but I could see no other way to write Jack.

So now the bad news: the reason I wanted to get this one out quick is because tomorrow I head off to a new state to begin my PhD program. I do wish to be clear - I have no intention of abandoning this fic. I have way too much fun writing it. That said, I do not know what my time situation is going to be once I get started. Point is it's quite likely there will be a good sized interval before you see chapter 15 and find out just who felt the need to hold Shepard at gunpoint.

And I was right. Chapter 15 went pretty smoothly. It ended up being more humorous in tone than anything else I've done, I think, so I hope when you do finally see it you enjoy it.

As for who it's about? Astute readers of the past two chapters should already know.

As always, thanks for everything, everybody. Do enjoy!


	15. Chapter 15, Chameleon, Kasumi Goto

**Chameleon – Kasumi Goto**

* * *

–

Shepard sighed heavily, his head hanging. "It figures this would happen three days after we finished blinding all the cameras in here."

The stowaway stepped out of thin air. Color and form roiled where seconds before had been nothing, tracing their way along the woman's body until she stood whole, gun still trained on the back of Shepard's skull. There was an audible pop and vapor curled from her lips as they drew into a smirk. Kasumi laughed musically. "Funny how the world works sometimes, isn't it?"

Shepard nodded.

"Hands up."

He complied. Full armor or no, his head was very exposed and Kasumi was well within his kinetic barriers' minimum effective range. She had him trapped and they both knew it.

Kasumi did not consider herself a vindictive woman (not counting Hock, but who could honestly hold that against her?) and yet the sight of the mighty Commander Shepard helpless before her almost made her giggle. It hadn't been easy, stowing away aboard a cutting-edge war frigate. Just keeping out of sight of the crew – let alone the omnipresent AI – had taken all of her tricks. She'd spent most of the past three days behind her stealth fields, until she'd very nearly caught hypothermia from the cooling units. She was exhausted, she was hungry, she was cold, and her legs cramped from sitting still for so many hours, lest she trip a pressure sensor – but in the end the only one who'd even had a flicker of suspicion had been the quarian, and nobody had taken her acute hearing seriously enough to send out a more careful search.

The Normandy was a great floating safe, a marvel of technology in every sense of the word, but Kasumi was… well, Kasumi.

Kasumi wondered why she hadn't tried this before. Four months of running from Cerberus teams – sneaking past and sometimes killing their agents just to keep her head on her shoulders – had taken their toll on her, but now she had their newest team by the throat. Hero of the Citadel or not, she had him.

Kasumi took a slinking step closer. Shepard was not a large man, but he dwarfed her – the top of her hood barely reached his armpit – and yet he allowed her to pull the gun from the clips on his back and kick it safely under the couch. His pistol came next, along with the concealed blade in his right gauntlet. Shepard stayed silent as Kasumi's fingers quested along every armor seal for hidden weapons.

"So… here we are," Kasumi said when she'd finally satisfied herself, grinning as she reached back for the half-empty bottle of bourbon she'd found in the Commander's fridge. Her gun hand never wavered, even as she put the bottle to her lips and tossed back another swallow. Her taste in drinks tended towards the colorful and shamelessly girly, but she couldn't help but enjoy the way the bourbon burned on its way down her throat. Shepard had _some_ taste, anyway (whatever his Spartan quarters might indicate).

"What do you want?" Shepard asked.

Kasumi took her time with another nonchalant sip. "You really need to lighten up, Shep," she said, smacking her lips theatrically. "Beautiful woman shows up in your quarters with a bottle of hard liquor, pats you down, and you act like this? Are you gay or just a tightass?"

Shepard didn't take the bait. "You have a gun jammed in my neck, I don't have a clue what you look like, and I'm tired, so why don't you just tell me what you want or shoot me so we can get on with our lives?"

Kasumi cackled. "How rude of me. Turn around. Slowly."

Shepard was still until she jabbed her pistol a little deeper into his skin. He grimaced as he did as she said, turning slowly until he was grimacing right down the gun barrel.

"Kasumi Goto," Kasumi said politely, inclining her head and grinning ear to ear. "Told you I was beautiful." Shepard had nothing to say to this, but Kasumi didn't care. "We ran into each other a few days ago at the C-Sec offices."

Shepard screwed up his face in confusion for a few seconds before realization dawned. "That was you?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. Kasumi nodded. "Huh. You looked good in a dress."

Shepard's expression had gone from frustrated to mildly bored, and red flags went off in Kasumi's mind. He looked entirely too confident for someone at his enemy's mercy. Still, Kasumi smiled (so sue her. She liked being told she was pretty, even by the leader of the enemy). "I'm sure you'd look great in one too, but that's not the point."

"Then what is? What do you want, Kasumi Goto?"

It was time to stop joking. Kasumi's face fell into the most intimidating scowl she could muster. "I want you to _Stop. Following. Me," _she growled, pushing the gun into his Adam's apple to emphasize each word.

Shepard just sighed again. "Again with the enemies everywhere. I'm not following you," he said, shrugging. "Didn't have a clue who you are. Still don't, really."

Kasumi's painted lower lip trembled in rage. "Don't lie!" she shouted, finger dancing dangerously close to the trigger. "You're with Cerberus! You've made my life a living _hell_ for months! I'm _sorry_, okay? Leave me ALONE!" Thank goodness her hood covered her eyes, or Shepard might see how close the tears were to brimming forth.

Shepard's eyes widened at her outburst. "Kasumi… are you in some trouble?" he asked, voice quiet and gun forgotten. His previous nonchalance was gone in an instant. His eyes looked almost… pitying.

Kasumi trembled. Some part of her wanted to just pull the trigger, or maybe slam the pistol grip down between his eyes, but all the same she found the answer spilling out of her. "Yes! Yes I'm in trouble!" she shouted, voice wavering entirely too much to sound intimidating. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't even set myself up anywhere without you and your agents trying to kill me!" Her eyes narrowed under her hood, blinking away the moisture. "_That's_ why I'm here, to tell you to knock it off or else I'm going to get _really _unpleasant." She wiggled the gun urgently. "Call off your dogs and I let you live. Otherwise…"

If Shepard was at all phased by the threat, he didn't show it. "Kasumi," he tried again, "I'm not with Cerberus." He frowned. "Well… I am. Kindof. It's more like they're with me. It's complicated. But whatever you think, we have _not_ been hunting you. I genuinely have no idea who you are."

Kasumi snorted back half of a strained laugh. "Sure," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're from a _different_ Cerberus. And then you just _happen_ to show up behind me in line on the Citadel after chasing me off of Bekenstein. And you just _happen_ to command a Cerberus vessel. And you just _happen_ to be carrying one of their top agents. How stupid do you think I am?"

Shepard grimaced. "A lot of things just _happen_, Kasumi. But you have to believe me, I don't mean you any harm. Hell, half of the people on this ship would throw you a party if you told them you're on the run from Cerberus." Kasumi frowned, rage dissipating. A terrifying possibility dawned on her. Had she, maybe… made a mistake? She found herself nervously chewing her lower lip as possibilities flickered through her mind. Her gun arm, however, never wavered.

"If you're not after me," she growled after a moment, "then what _are _you doing?"

Shepard forced a chuckle that came out sounding more like a tired grunt. "It's a long story, Kasumi," he said. Ever so slowly, he lowered his arms to his sides, but Kasumi didn't protest. "But if you've got Cerberus troubles, I will do whatever it takes to clear it up. I promise."

Kasumi hesitated. She'd always considered herself a good judge of character – you had to be, to manipulate people as she did – and Shepard looked honest enough. Still… he was _Cerberus. _She chewed her lip awkwardly, tasting the stripe painted there. It had been so long since she'd had the luxury of trusting anyone. Keiji had only been dead a few months and already she was so desperate for a little companionship that she was seriously considering opening up to a Cerberus commander? Was she truly so lost that she'd cry on the first sympathetic shoulder she met?

Kasumi didn't have time to think it over, for as soon as her mind was elsewhere, Shepard's hands flashed upwards. In an instant he'd batted her gun aside and twisted it from her grip, pulling its ammo clips out in a single smooth motion before tossing it over his shoulder. Hardly a second later, Kasumi was on her back on the floor, hips pinned under one of Shepard's armored knees.

She gaped uselessly at him in shock for a moment, blindsided by his effortless maneuver. "But don't point guns at me," he said, staring gravely down at her. "Or anyone on this ship. Or I _will_ hurt you."

Some part of her mind leapt to planning. She could activate her suit's inlaid tasers and blast the man off of her with ten thousand volts. She could flash her omni-tool bright enough to blind him for an hour. She could put a bladed elbow into his face, or a foot-mounted tranquilizer into the mesh between his groinplates and hips. She'd been in this situation before and had a half dozen ways to get out.

But then what?

She'd screwed up. Inside, she felt the dam break. Her face fell, followed shortly after by tears. All of her reservations about Shepard evaporated in a flash, and she felt months of anguish bubbling to the surface. "I need help, Shepard," she mewled.

"Tell me."

* * *

_3 days previously…_

–

Kasumi may have been a lowly thief, but at least she was a _rich_ lowly thief.

Only she didn't have any money. At the moment. Temporary setback, at most. Soon to be addressed.

She'd arrived on the Citadel stowed away in a cargo ship's hold, the only way she'd felt assured she couldn't be tracked by Cerberus. The months avoiding them on Bekenstein had been interesting, at least, but bit-by-bit the dogs had worn her down. She'd hated to leave Bekenstein without reclaiming Keiji's graybox – it felt like a failure – but she had had no choice. No matter where on the planet she'd run, no matter how careful she'd been, somehow they'd managed to shut her down one hidden safe house at a time. Her fortune of credits – usually so quick to disappear into lavish accommodations, rare foods, and frivolous bits of opulence here and there – had instead disappeared to paying off the right people for information or under-the-radar transportation. And with Cerberus hounding her she didn't have time to pull off any heists. Her bank accounts had dried up like a Rakhanan aquifer.

Now all she had to her name was a lavish crimson dress and what was perhaps the galaxy's most valuable suit outside of the wealthiest volus cartels.

Today she wore the dress. It was bright red, cut of the finest Thessian silks, and hugged her curves in just the right way. It was cut low, revealing just enough skin to draw attention to the glittering emerald brooch that hung from her neck. Similar golden jewelry dangled from her wrists and ears, while two long silver pins held her raven hair up in an elegant bun. All in all the effect was stunning (if she did say so herself), and Kasumi could feel the eyes watching her.

Normally a bad thing for a thief, yes, but it didn't matter. Kasumi was a master thief, and a master thief knew there was more to camouflage than cutting-edge stealth field generators worth more than a luxury stellar yacht. The Wards were far too crowded to get away, even with invisibility. The trick was to blend, not disappear. The stealth suit was for tricking security. The dress was for tricking people. She could be as memorable as she wanted, so long as she wasn't _her_.

Case in point, today she was Jila Han, smooth-talking CEO of a private firm that specialized in sub-AI routines, visiting the Citadel for a fancy business gala. The details came spilling out of her mouth without flaw (courtesy of her memory files about the _real_ woman she was impersonating) - C-Sec was investigating her company under baseless accusations of illegal AI research and she needed to get back to their offworld headquarters as soon as possible to fetch the documents she needed to prove her innocence. But of course due to a mixup she'd been put on the no-fly list. She didn't have the time to wait for it to get cleared up – she had to get back _now._

The men at the little electronics shop didn't bat an eye as she laid out her fictional biography for them, too busy gawking either at her or at her glittering jewelry. She smiled – she knew she'd already won when she saw how they nodded as she carefully unpinned the broach from her neck.

"This," she said, tapping the golf-ball sized stone in the center, "is an Amaterasu emerald, one of the first. Its market worth to the right buyers is… somewhere around a quarter million credits." She set it on the counter, taking note of how the electronic store's employees' eyes followed her as she bent down. She grinned primly as she reached for her earrings. "These are Earth-made. Twenty-four karat gold. Another thirty thousand." Her bracelets were next – these she said were from Palaven, and worth another easy sixty thousand. She piled all the finery before the wide-eyed men. "A fortune," she concluded, smiling. "And all I want is a ticket out of here."

"Let me get this straight," one of them – a blonde-haired human in a pressed blue blazer said dubiously, "you're offering us almost half a million for a shuttle ticket? What's the catch?" His friends gave him harsh glares, but he ignored them. Smart lad.

Kasumi smiled sweetly. "I'd need to use your identity to purchase the ticket, honey. I'd pose as your sister or girlfriend or something, just long enough to get off the station."

"And what if C-Sec finds out?"

Kasumi laid it on thick, tracing a finger across the back of the man's hand. "They won't. Not fast enough, anyway. You make sure you keep those baubles for a week or so before trying to sell them and nobody will be any the wiser. I'll be gone and you'll… well you'll be rich men."

Now one more sultry glance through half-lidded eyes aaaaannnnd….

_Sold._

She watched in silence as the men fingered the jewelry and bickered amongst themselves. Thank goodness she'd been able to find some humans – they were so much easier to trick than the other species. Whether it was the quarians – who could hear her from two hundred meters, stealth suit or not – or the turians – who _always_ assumed the worst and _always_ contacted the proper authorities – it seemed every alien out there had some way to screw her up, and so Kasumi did her best to only rip off her own species if she could help it.

In the end it took a little more shameless flirting, but ten minutes later the men had agreed (their first mistake). They'd stuffed her 'priceless' jewelry into a box and taken it into the back room (their second mistake), and the blonde one had let her use his omni-tool to arrange a shuttle ride (their third mistake). She'd tossed them a suggestive wink as she'd walked away, feeling their eyes follow her out the front door.

Luckily their eyes didn't then follow her much farther. As soon as she was sure she was out of sight she'd doubled back and returned to the shop, this time sneaking in through the employee entrance with the codes she'd mined from the blonde man's omni-tool while she booked the ticket. Even as the mens' voices filtered in from the storefront, talking about what they would do with their newfound wealth, Kasumi crept through the stockrooms. A quick hack of the security cameras showed her where they'd hidden the box of jewels, and Kasumi pocketed them, leaving a nondescript datapad chock full of very suspicious data in their place. It wasn't _real_ intercepted geth communication as far as she knew – she'd lifted it from a C-Sec terminal a few days ago – but it sure looked like it. With a few additions of her own – mostly coordinates of populated systems – it looked positively insidious.

Job done, Kasumi slipped back out of the store.

She felt almost bad heading right for the nearest terminal and anonymously uploading the security footage of the men hiding a box of 'geth intel' five minutes after helping to buy an illegal ticket off the Citadel to C-Sec's servers, but at the end of the day it was them or her, and it sure wasn't going to be her. Besides, it wasn't like she was stealing _real_ jewels back from them – the imitation stones she'd traded weren't worth the box they'd hidden them in.

She took a quick walk down the ward merchant aisles, taking her time admiring all the trinkets the galaxy had to offer those with the money (or fast enough hands), and by the time she'd worked her way back up to the electronics store, C-Sec was already leading away her very unlucky marks in handcuffs.

It was another hour or so before the officers finally left the store, but as soon as they did, Kasumi let herself in. As soon as she'd locked the shop down, she headed straight for the employee fridge (she hadn't eaten in more than a day) and stuffed her face with everything she could find.

And then she stole everything there was to steal.

–

There were a great many things to like about having a graybox. Eidetic memory on-demand had all the benefits of the real thing with none of the sleep-damaging obsession. Want to experience your twentieth birthday party again? Say the tagword and away you go. Don't like the memory of botching the heist back on Melavi? Delete it. Not to mention how much more beautiful the world was when you could revisit your memories of it in spectacular detail. Kasumi's graybox brought her mind all the order of a computer, with folders and files she could open at will, and ever since the surgery she'd adored it every day.

But it did have its pitfalls. Despite all of Keiji's warnings, Kasumi had let her mind grow complacent with its computerized crutch, relying on the graybox for everything from esoteric skills to snippets of catchy songs she wanted to hold onto. It had made remembering things without help nearly impossible. Worse, memories had to be written into the graybox manually – anything Kasumi forgot to specifically save would tend to get buried in the miasma of mere biological memory.

And perhaps most importantly, it was ever so easy to get lost down memory lane. Watching a happy memory was like the realest movie playing in front of her senses, and more often than not she found the real world slipping away behind the fantasy.

Which was exactly what was happening now. The omni-tool on her wrist beeped angrily at her as she leaned back against the shop's desk, eyes closed and mind wandering through her and Keiji's first big heist together for the thousandth time. Some part of her heard it, some part of her knew it didn't belong, but that part was buried under the rush of her mind's perfect reenactment.

_"Mr. Nakamura!" Keiji turned at her voice, utterly committed – as always – to his cover. His eyes flitted ever so briefly to the man at her side. To their mark._

Beep beep beep beep beep.

'_what are you doing?' he mouthed._

Beep beep beep beep beep.

_Kasumi just smiled. 'Improvising'_

Beep beep beep beep beep.

The beeping grew louder, more insistent, and memory-Kasumi finally heard it. The dream-memory tore apart in an instant, disappearing with a flash that left Kasumi seeing spots in its wake. She stumbled off of her chair, landing inelegantly in the dust on her backside. Her head swam with the aftereffects of the interrupted memory, and she laid down, boneless, and listened to her omni-tool beep.

It was a minute before she'd regained the presence of mind to see what was the matter. A message, from one of her informants.

_-Cerberus frigate landed on Zakera Ward. Watch yourself.-_

Kasumi's head cleared in an instant.

"Oh gonads," she muttered, flipping neatly to her feet and brushing the dust off of the back of her dress as best she could. How had they found her so quickly? Was she losing her edge?

Her heart threatened to break out of her chest as she rummaged around the shop for anything she could carry. The shop's electronic accounts were easy enough to clear (who honestly used 'password' as their password anymore?), along with a little hard currency she slipped into a concealed compartment in her sash. Most of the shop's inventory was too large to get away with, but she helped herself to a rack of fancy omni-tool bracelets and, finally, wolfed down the rest of the noodles in the fridge.

Kasumi tried to keep herself calm as she slipped out the back of the shop and merged into the crowd of aliens walking by. She kept her gait purposefully restrained – it did no good to look like she was running anywhere – and held her face in a dignified grin, chin up and eyes lidded like the spoilt rich girl she was dressed as. But inside her mental walls threatened to crumble. She lived an exciting life. She _liked_ the chase. It was as much part of the heist as the heist itself. But ever since she'd broken into that Cerberus base her life had been nothing but trouble. Everywhere she went she was shadowed. A month ago they'd nearly caught her (the bullet-riddled remains of her bed had left a stark reminder just _how_ nearly) and she'd been forced to kill one of the agents. _That_ had only made things worse.

She didn't know how much more she could take. She was out of money, out of energy, out of time. She was smarter than any three Cerberus goons put together, but she was losing the war by attrition. Sooner or later she'd slip up and be captured.

And then she would die.

"_Krogan_ gonads."

–

Kasumi had transformed again. She'd always had an easy time molding her personality to suit the mission, and it was no different now that she was on a mission to save her life. By the time she'd reached the Zakera Ward's main C-Sec substation, she'd whipped up some believable tears and bedraggled her previously-flawless hair enough to look vulnerable. Eyeliner running down her cheeks, she stood in the long line of citizens and played her part, staring despondently down at her fancy shoes and trying to look as unintimidating as possible.

When she was finally seen, it was by a middle-aged blonde man with a weary face and the slightest limp. His mouth was drawn in an impatient frown as he gestured her into his office.

"Sit down. I'm Captain Bailey," he said gruffly as he stared at his terminal screen. "There's no reward for reporting a possible geth infiltrator, so if money's what you're after you've come to the wrong place. Anything else, I'm your man. What do you want?"

Kasumi stared at him and let her lower lip wobble at a calculated rate.

He finally looked up. His eyes widened at the look on Kasumi's face (thank goodness she knew the right calculations). All his gruffness vanished in an instant.

"You alright, ma'am?" he asked, rising from his seat and dropping to a kneel next to her. Kasumi let the tears flow a little harder as she wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. He fell for it without a hitch, gently patting her back. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Th…there are men hunting me," she sobbed. "I don't know where else to turn!" She laid the Japanese accent from her childhood on thick. She'd long since lost it since leaving Amaterasu, but it was useful now.

"Tell me," Bailey repeated gently.

She pretended to fight for control for a moment before she began. Bailey nodded grimly as she spelled out the fictional biography she'd stitched together on her way to the station. This time she was Izanami Sha, daughter of a recently-outed magnate on Amaterasu. After her father had lost his fortune his family had moved to the Citadel, but they'd been unused to the hustle and bustle of lower class life and they'd fallen on hard times. She had taken to dancing in bars but when her masters had crossed the line she'd thrown a bottle at one of them and run for it. Now she was blacklisted and she was afraid they'd kill her to get even.

"Please," she concluded. "Please protect me."

Bailey was grimacing as he returned to his computer. To his credit, he didn't accept her story at face value, and grilled her on details. Which bar, he asked? Who did she throw the bottle at? How long ago? Anyone else might have been stymied but Kasumi never came anywhere without finding an encyclopedia of information on it to save into her head. Every detail came without pause.

The Black Onus, she said, regurgitating what she judged to be just enough detail. The bottle had hit its owner, a disgraced turian major named Arjon Currusus. Four days ago, on the Onus' weekly half-price night, a well-known place and time for shady dealings.

Bailey nodded and typed a little more with each new detail. When he was finally satisfied, he left Kasumi to sit quietly in her chair, watching him finish his report. It was ten minutes before he spoke again.

"Alright. I'll have some agents investigate your story. The Onus has always been a little rough, but Arjon isn't one to cause trouble with us. We'll get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, what do you want us to do? Do you want passage off the station?"

Kasumi shook her head. She _would_, of course, but she had no doubt Cerberus was watching C-Sec closely enough to know when they shipped people out. She had to find her own way off in secret. "No. I… I can't leave my family."

Bailey nodded grimly, kneading at the back of his neck with one hand. "I understand. Well, you could stay here until it blows over, if you want. Or at one of the other stations, I could call them up. It doesn't sound to me like you need the witness protection program for this. Probably Arjon'll back off once we've had a little talk."

Kasumi nodded gratefully. "Here would be wonderful," she said. "You are… very generous. Thank you so much."

Bailey smiled and waved a hand. "Nothing to thank, ma'am. Happy to help. Now if you could just give me a description of the men you think are after you, I'll get Officer Naara to set you up."

Kasumi nodded. "Well… I don't know exactly," she started, "but they're human, I know that much." She summoned up the memories from the last time Cerberus agents had found her. "Three or four of them. Probably all men. Civilian clothes, concealed weapons."

"Nothing more specific?"

"Two blondes, two brunettes?" Kasumi added, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry."

Bailey sighed. "Run of the mill generic thugs, then. Don't worry, ma'am. We'll get 'em." He typed a last few lines into his computer.

Good. She could hide out inside of C-Sec for a day or two while she thought up a new plan. Maybe she'd even hitch a ride on one of their equipment shipments to another ward, just to get another step ahead of Cerberus. Kasumi was silently congratulating herself on another job well done when Bailey's intercom crackled. "Uhh… Captain? We've got a situation for you. Problem with the scanners."

Bailey rolled his eyes. "Excuse me," he said. He leaned into his intercom. "I'm seeing someone, Haron!" he snarled. "This had better be important."

"Yes sir, I know sir. It's… it's someone you should deal with personally."

"Fine. Send him in." Bailey's gruff edge returned as the door behind Kasumi slid open. She turned in her chair to see the new arrival.

Her jaw dropped. A human man stepped into the office, a quarian and a turian following behind. He looked harmless enough in his rumpled civilian clothing (though the turian sported a rifle almost as tall as Kasumi was), but his baggy T-shirt didn't quite hide the faded N7 tattoo on his right bicep. Kasumi and Bailey both fell silent. They knew who this was. This man's face had been the one all over the news. Two years was a long time, but not long enough to forget him.

The Hero of the Citadel. The Golden Boy of the Alliance. Commander Shepard.

"…Commander Shepard?" Bailey asked.

Shepard rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "Yeah… I guess so."

"You really shouldn't just tell people who you are, Commander," the turian whispered from behind him.

"Like it matters," the quarian snapped back. "The scanners don't make mistakes."

Bailey looked like a kid in a candy shop. "I thought you were dead, Commander."

Shepard shrugged. "Your scanners did too. Guess that's why I'm here."

Bailey nodded. "Well let me get that straightened out for you. I just need a moment to finish with Miss Sha, here. If you could just take a seat."

Kasumi bolted to her feet. Shepard was _alive! _The rumors were true, then.

Which meant the _other_ rumors were true too. He was working for Cerberus. Humanity's oh-so-special hero had come back from the dead to hunt Kasumi down. Gonads. Gonads Gonads _Gonads! _Could this day get any worse?

"N…No need," she stuttered, edging towards the door. Shepard turned to follow her, a concerned look on his face. "Changed my mind. Thanks for everything!"

"But what about the-" she heard Bailey shout, but she was gone.

–

She didn't go anywhere, ducking instead behind the nearest convenient elcor, who did not react to her presence even when she leant up against him to think. Cerberus was getting closer and she needed another plan. Another way to get by without being seen. She supposed she couldn't use the ticket she'd conned the electronics store employees out of now that she'd turned them in for it already.

It was time to hide. Her mind rattled through a dozen different possible hiding places. People who'd helped her in the past, shelters for the lost and anonymous, crowded squatter communities. They all had their advantages.

She frowned. Who was she kidding? Cerberus was done playing. They'd sent _Shepard_ after her. Shepard, who had held off a pirate invasion on Elysium in his civilian clothes. Shepard, the first human Spectre. Shepard, who had killed Saren and his monstrous ship. He wasn't about to be fooled by a quick costume change. If he was after her it was a matter of time before he found her.

She came to a quick conclusion.

Enough playing. It was time to go on the offensive.

It took her ten minutes to get to the storage lockers where she'd left her _real_ suit, but only a minute to dress. The polymer-fiber catsuit fit over her like a second skin, its dozens of hidden tricks a comforting presence. She always felt like putting on the suit was taking off her identity. Nobody had _ever _identified her with it on. With it, she was a shadow. Less than a shadow. Nobody.

She left her fancy clothes where they lay, stuffing the stolen omni-tools and credits into her stealth suit's many pockets.

Ten more minutes and she'd caught up to Shepard again, the quarian and turian still keeping watch over him as he worked his way through one of the Ward markets. If he had recognized her back at the C-Sec offices, he hadn't given any sign, though of course Cerberus was well-known for its subtlety. For all she knew he'd already called in the cavalry to apprehend her.

Breaking one of her cardinal rules, she activated her stealth field and tailed him through the crowd. It was always dangerous being invisible in public – she'd learned the hard way that invisibility was not the same thing as invulnerability. One wrong shove and she might create a panic, and that was the last thing she wanted. Shepard would on her in a flash. She would have to be careful. She kept her distance as she trailed behind the Commander and his guards, patching her omni-tool's audio software to pick their voices out of the tumult rather than risking getting close enough to hear for herself.

"All I'm saying," the turian was saying, "is that if you're going to 'revitalize security' you should do it right. What's the point of hiring four thousand new agents if all of them act like _that_?"

"Bailey seemed to have his head on straight," Shepard said absently, stopping to look at a salarian food stand. Kasumi ducked reflexively behind a neighboring stall, forgetting that she was invisible anyway. She crouched down and crept towards the trio, careful not to tread on anyone's toes.

"Great," the turian continued. "_One_ competent officer in a station of fools. That will help."

"Look who's talking," the quarian interrupted "They were _trying_ to help that poor woman until you scared her away."

"I did not."

"Did too. Probably saw the scars."

"I have it on very good authority that human women _like_ scars."

"Suuuuure they do."

"I'm serious. If I hadn't kept myself quiet on Omega I'd probably have fangirls by now." The quarian just laughed. "Art, extranet journals of poorly spell-checked sexy fanfiction. The whole meal."

The two aliens kept bickering as Kasumi slithered nearer, until Shepard finally turned. "Alright, seriously guys," he said. "I can't take you anywhere. Tali, stop encouraging Mister Fangirls here. Garrus… just stop."

Garrus grinned, his mandibles fluttering. "Aye aye, Commander."

"You two go find some dextro food you like and then meet me back on the ship. I'm going to go see Anderson."

The turian's grin faltered. "Are you sure you want to do that alone?"

"We've been over this. I'm sure," Shepard said. "Besides, I'm gonna need somebody to take this back to the Normandy." He tapped the case of drauch seedflour the salarian attendant had placed in front of him. "Gardner'll faint to see so much decent flour."

Shepard called forth his omni-tool to pay for the flour and Kasumi's invisible eyes widened. Now was her chance.

She sprang into action, darting right between Shepard and his turian friend to duck into the store. A quick few commands to her own omni-tool was all it took to hang up the salarian's sales terminal for a few seconds, giving her the precious moment she needed to tap Shepard's omni-tool.

The seconds dripped by and Kasumi held her breath, eyes flitting from face to face. Had they seen her? Not Shepard or the turian, anyway, and the salarian was far too busy cursing at the frozen machine to think about invisible thieves. But the quarian had a new rigidness to her stance. She'd heard something.

Kasumi knew she'd taken a great risk, but it would all be worth it.

Her omni-tool finished stealing all of Shepard's files and it was time to move again. It was a simple matter to push the salarian's narrow feet out from under him – the spindly alien gave a start and stumbled obligingly onto Shepard –

and a simpler matter yet to slip her hand into his pocket and take the berthing chip the Commander had gotten from the docks while he was distracted helping the salarian up.

Kasumi ran like she'd never run before, ducking through the crowds like a thin wisp of clouds. It wasn't until she was two blocks away that she finally climbed into a dark alley and deactivated her stealth field. She stared down at the chip in her hand, shivering as she popped it into her omni-tool's jack and called it up.

_SSV Normandy SR-2,_ it said. _Private bay 94._

She slunk away, unseen.

* * *

_Presently..._

–

Shepard looked tired, but Kasumi looked even worse. Ever since she'd stowed away aboard the Normandy she'd had to remain hyper-vigilant. She'd barely slept, and she'd only managed to eat and drink a few mouthfuls pilfered from the mess in the rare moments when nobody was watching. It had been a very rough few days.

But she hadn't been idle. She'd used that time wisely, testing the ship's defenses, waiting for her chance to strike at the man in charge. It wasn't a simple matter. Shepard kept himself busy. When he wasn't making the rounds on the ship he was holed away strategizing with the turian. He rarely slept more than an hour or two at a time and that, combined with the ever-watchful EDI, made pinning him alone a very difficult task. So she'd watched the rest of the crew, learning everything she could.

And one thing she'd learned was that Miranda Lawson was, bar none, the most dangerous person aboard. _Nobody_ messed with her (aside from Shepard, of course). People spoke her name just a little quieter than anyone else's.

And now Kasumi knew why. Not thirty seconds after she and Shepard had stepped off the elevator in the CIC (Shepard back in his Cerberus uniform and herself relieved of all her weapons – or at least all of the weapons Shepard had been able to find when he'd returned the favor of frisking her) did she find herself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

"Shepard…" Miranda growled warningly, eyes narrowed with deadly intent. Kasumi's face fell.

"Yeah, a little late for that," Shepard said casually. "She's already had me at gun point. Thanks for the backup." He stepped forward and closed a hand over the end of Miranda's weapon, causing her to back up in confusion.

Miranda's eyes widened. "Shepard?"

"No," he said simply, stepping in front of Kasumi.

For a second Miranda just looked gobsmacked before realization hit her and her flawless face twisted into a frustrated scowl. "Shepard…" she said, with a tone of voice suggesting she was talking to a very small child. "Do you _have_ to adopt every degenerate that stumbles into our path? Do you have any idea who that is?"

Shepard crossed his arms. "A woman who got in over her head and is scared to death that Cerberus is going to kill her."

"And for good reason." Miranda said, eyes still staring daggers at Kasumi. "She's a murd-"

Kasumi's eyes widened.

"You're dismissed, Miranda," Shepard said.

"You-"

"You're _dismissed_," Shepard repeated, his face leaving no room for argument. Miranda lowered her weapon, eyes boring into Shepard's. The woman looked like she might snap and shoot them both at any moment, but Kasumi knew better than that, and indeed, a moment later Miranda stopped smoldering and, turning neatly on one heel, strode out of the room.

"She greet everyone that way?" Kasumi asked, trying to veil her unease. She wouldn't say it out loud, but Miranda scared her.

Shepard sighed. "Sadly, yes." He headed for the door. "Come on. We're going to call Timmy and straighten this out." He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "EDI?"

"Yes Commander."

"Tell the Illusive Man to get on the line."

EDI hesitated momentarily. "Official policy is not to inter-"

"Tell him to get on the line."

"Yes sir."

Kasumi followed Shepard into a communications room, her apprehension mounting. The room's polished table descended into the floor with a smooth click as Shepard entered, the lights dimming automatically.

"Commander," EDI's voice returned. "The Illusive Man has agreed to speak with you. Please step into the capture field. The QE Array will activate momentarily."

Shepard nodded, unconcerned, and stepped into the holographic-ringed circle in the middle of the room, but Kasumi's mind reeled. She had been too busy hiding to consider the magnitude what she was seeing before, but now it hit her full force. What had she gotten herself into? Commander Shepard, back from the dead? Krogan and turians and superbiotic criminals? A sentient computer? Quantum entanglement linkups to the Illusive Man himself? Some part of Kasumi's mind – the irresponsible part that had led her down the path of professional thievery in the first place – leapt for joy at all the valuable things she could no doubt loot from this ship.

But the rest of her just felt very, very scared.

"W…what kind of mission _is_ this?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," Shepard said, beckoning her into the circle to stand by his side. She shuddered a bit as she stepped through the ring. "But suffice to say it's big stuff."

Kasumi was spared the trouble of answering when the array flickered on. The ring began to shimmer and the light in the room seemed to bleed away. Interlaced images traced themselves across Kasumi's vision, quickly resolving into clarity.

A man (he didn't look _that_ illusive, truth be told) sat calmly before a backdrop of a luminescent nebula, which cast long shadows over his face with its inky green glow. Twin blue pinpricks and the ember of a lit cigarette peeked out from the darkness of the man's face.

"Shepard," he said, smoke curling in front of his lips. "I trust Subject Zero is well in hand."

"She goes by Jack now," Shepard said, "and you and I are going to have a long talk about her one of these days. But that's not why I'm here."

The Man smirked and took another draw from his cigarette. His cobalt eyes flickered to stare at Kasumi, who retracted a bit further back beneath her hood. "Of course not. Care to introduce me to your friend?"

"Cut the act. She says you've been looking for her. I want it to stop."

The Illusive Man paused, stabbing out his cigarette before leaning forward in his chair and flitting his eyes back up to Shepard. "I know of Miss Goto," he admitted at length. "I wonder if you can say the same."

"I know enough," Shepard said. "If Cerberus is chasing her, then I know she's worth protecting."

The Illusive Man shook his head. "Of course," he agreed genially. Shepard said nothing, and Kasumi shrank a little more, sensing the danger in the man's false friendliness. "EDI?" The Illusive Man said.

"Yes, Illusive Man."

"Please declassify operation report Lambda four one eight four. If Shepard and his crew are going to be defending Miss Goto, they deserve to know who she is."

"Yes, Illusive Man. Operation report Lambda four one eight four declassified and uploaded to open-access shipwide network." Kasumi winced.

The Illusive Man leaned back as he withdrew a fresh cigarette, a satisfied look on his face. "EDI," he continued, lips pursed as he lit his cigarette with an old-style flint lighter, "Please summarize the operation report."

"Yes, Illusive Man." The air in front of the Illusive Man came alight with floating diagrams. Kasumi risked a glance up at Shepard, whose expression was as still as iron as EDI began the report. "Operation Lambda four one eight four describes Anubis Cell's efforts to capture the thief Kasumi Goto. Miss Goto is officially wanted in four systems for grand theft and industrial espionage. Cerberus' interest in her stems from her November 2184 raid on a Hephaestus Cell research facility on Caleston. Miss Goto infiltrated the facility's defenses through methods unknown and sabotaged critical regulatory systems, leading to a meltdown of the facility's primary reactor. Total death toll incurred in Miss Goto's attack was fourteen Cerberus agents, mostly maintenance staff attempting to contain the reactor when it exploded."

Kasumi stared guiltily at her toes.

"Confidentially protocols prevent thorough inventory of lost assets," EDI continued, "but among the stolen equipment was a data core containing designs for experimental atmospheric exchangers worth an estimated eighty-four million credits. Total cost incurred in Miss Goto's attack was approximately one-hundred-thirty million credits."

"Does that include opportunity costs?" the Illusive Man interrupted.

"No," EDI said. "Costs reflect stolen or destroyed material assets and research and development costs only. The data core's designs would likely be worth considerably more after implementation on human colony worlds, where they were expected to reduce aeroforming costs by thirty to forty percent and respiratory illness by twelve percent."

"Go on," the Illusive Man said, staring victoriously at Shepard.

"Anubis Cell was assigned the task of capturing Miss Goto and reclaiming the lost data core if possible. Operation Lambda four one eight four has thus far been unsuccessful. Total cost of Operation Lambda four one eight four as of most recent requisitions is four point eight million credits. Total death toll of Operation Lambda four one eight four as of most recent report is four Cerberus agents, three fatally electrocuted by a hidden arc generator while searching one of Miss Goto's accommodations on Bekenstein, and the fourth fatally shot by Miss Goto as she attempted to sabotage their landing craft. As of most recent report, Miss Goto remains at large on Bekenstein."

There was a long, awkward silence. "Does that change anything, Shepard?" the Illusive Man asked.

Shepard grimaced. "Some," he admitted, pointedly not looking at Kasumi, who felt herself shrink a little more.

"We're not the monsters the galaxy seems intent on painting us," The Man said calmly. "Properly used, the data Miss Goto stole would have improved human lives across the galaxy. Instead, she sold it. Perhaps she will satisfy our curiosity and tell us what she bought with the money." His unnerving stare flickered back to Kasumi.

Kasumi cleared her throat. "I threw most of it away. Gave it to an asari art university," she said.

The Illusive Man's stare did not move. It was easy to see he was the sort who never asked a question to which he did not already know the answer.

"…And?"

Kasumi winced. "And a Stradivarius violin… And some asari wine… and a hovercar…"

The Illusive Man nodded. Kasumi felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She couldn't find the strength to look to Shepard, but she could feel his disapproving gaze all the same.

"It's… not as simple as that," Kasumi added quietly. "I try to only steal from people who deserve it."

"And kill them if they stand in the way?" Shepard asked.

"That was an accident," Kasumi mumbled. "I didn't mean to overload the reactor." She refused to look over at Shepard. It was the truth. She hadn't meant to kill those workers. She never meant to kill anyone, not really. It was just a horrible, horrible mistake. Of course, she could hardly say that_. _What consolation would it be to say she was sorry _now? _"And I don't waste _all_ of it," she added weakly. "I've given _millions_ away to charities."

The Illusive Man paused, taking another long draw from his cigarette. He didn't deign to respond to her, confident that she'd said enough herself. "So," he said at length. "Shepard. Still want to protect her? It's your choice."

Kasumi stared miserably at her feet during the painfully-long moment of silence, her heart beating madly. She could practically hear Shepard's mind working, deciding if he should help or throw her to the dogs. "Yes," he said eventually, though he sounded considerably less sure of himself now.

The Illusive Man nodded as his gaze rested on Kasumi again. "Very well. I will offer you this deal, Miss Goto. Breaking into a Cerberus base takes a great deal of skill and resources. In exchange for my mercy you will offer these skills and resources – and your _unconditional _loyalty – to Commander Shepard until he sees fit to release you." He stared darkly at her. "And you will tell me _exactly_ how you found the base on Caleston."

–

Shepard rubbed his forehead as the two of them left the comm room, Kasumi dogging behind.

"I swear, it was an accident, Shepard. I'm a thief, not a murderer."

"We'll see," he said, not looking at her as he pressed the elevator call button. He wasn't buying her story, and Kasumi despaired. How much guilt did he expect her to feel? She was _sorry_, she really was! Did she need to cry or something to get it across?

"I wouldn't do that," Kasumi insisted, settling for honesty for once. "Not even to Cerberus. It just got out of hand, is all."

"Yeoman Chambers will set you up." Shepard said, ignoring her. "We head to Illium tomorrow. Briefing at eighteen hundred hours. If you need help, stick with the Yeoman or Lieutenant Taylor." Kasumi shrank a bit at the harshness in his tone. _Way to go, Goto_. Day one and she'd already pulled a gun on her new commander and convinced him she was a killer. Perhaps later she could send a few mail bombs to his family just to really shine up her first impression.

The elevator arrived and Shepard stepped into it. There was a much-too-long pause as she sat there, staring hopefully up at him for some sign of forgiveness. His blue eyes sought out hers and Kasumi thought – just maybe – she saw the curl of a smile on his lips. "You still have that violin?" he asked, voice gruff.

"No. Had to hock it to buy safe passage."

"We'll get you a new one. I think this ship could use a little music."

The doors shut.

–

Kasumi was an expert at people watching. In a galaxy of fantastic technology, of DNA scanners and auto-targeting turrets, of voiceprints and tensor fields, of security VI's and smoke-alloy safe locks, there was still nothing more important on a heist than knowing your target. She couldn't count the number of times she'd had a target with the perfect technological defense fall prey to the right attack on overlooked personality faults. Machines didn't necessarily have weaknesses, but people always did – they were _always _the weak link in the chain. Whether it was hubris, gluttony, lust, or impatience, everybody had something you could use against them.

It was no different on a ship. Kasumi had already sorted everyone on the Normandy into their respective piles – who to avoid, who to ignore, who to ally with. You avoided Miranda, you ignored Hadley, you allied with Mordin. You stayed the hell away from Jack if you didn't want profanities and/or biotic fields where the sun don't shine. Grunt was safe as long as you watched what you said and never approached while he was eating. Tali was a sweetheart until you'd lost her trust, then she was a dangerous little firecracker. And Gardner, Gardner was king (She'd already gone out of her way to compliment Gardner's atrocious cooking – it was always, _always_ prudent to befriend He Who Makes The Food, evil genius or no). All it took was a little observation, and Kasumi already felt like she fit right in.

But her favorite so far was Yeoman Chambers. Kelly had made an unmatched effort to help her get established, giving her a tour of the ship and helping her set up quarters in the observation deck. And while the rest of the crew seemed to view her as a potential threat to be distrusted (which Kasumi understood to be par for the course for new additions to this particular crew, especially when said new addition came with a document about how she'd killed fourteen innocent workers just trying to do their jobs), Kelly had no problem talking with her for hours at a time. Now the two of them were seated at one of the mess tables, idly picking at their food while Kasumi spoke.

She'd forgotten how nice it was to have someone to talk to. Life as a thief was a great deal of fun, but it was a lonely existence. She remembered how giddy she'd been to meet Keiji and finally have someone to confide in, to share in her non-life with. It was refreshing to have someone to share her story with again – even if most of the story was invented.

"Not sure why I gravitate towards art," Kasumi said, tapping her painted lip absently. "I guess it's just in my upbringing. My grandfather back on Shanxi always got on me about being a proper lady. Lots of music lessons, diction, poetry, that kind of thing. I think he wanted me to be some kind of geisha. Carry on the tradition, or something."

"Did you?" Kelly asked.

"Nah. My parents grew up in Japan, but I've never even visited. It's kinda hard to be Japanese in any real way when you have to spend so much time being just human. Aliens don't care if you're Japanese, the Alliance doesn't care. It just kindof… gets smoothed over, I guess."

"It's kindof sad," Kelly said wistfully.

Kasumi frowned. "Yeah… Unless your colony is self sufficient you pretty much can't get away with pretending you're still on an island back on Earth." The details might have been lies but there were kernels of truth there. She hadn't been to her _real_ homeplanet of Amaterasu for years now, but she remembered well the sense of dignified sadness as old traditions faded, as wooden buildings were replaced with prefabs, as isolation gave way to interdependence. "Keiji was born in Japan, though," she said. "He still did all the old stuff. Knew absolutely everything there was to know about Japanese history. Silly old traditionalist. I wonder if that's why I went for him."

Kelly sighed contentedly. "He sounds nice."

"Very nice," Kasumi agreed, a solemn look on her face. "But now he's gone. Smoothed over too."

Kelly gave her a pitying look. "Well, at least you _have_ a history from Earth. I was born on Elysium. I don't even know who my ancestors are. My parents wanted me to be an attorney, but it's not like I come from a civilization of lawyers. Don't really have a story at all." She tapped at her chin, thinking for a moment, before eyeing Kasumi with a knowing glint. "Though I suppose I could just make one up like _you_ do."

Kasumi fell silent. She stared at Kelly, who grinned smugly back at her. The redhead was smarter than she looked. Kasumi smiled guiltily. "Oookay, you caught me."

"I knew it! You little liar!" Kelly said, beaming. "Was _any_ of that stuff true?"

Kasumi shrugged, taking a sip from her drink to hide her smile. "A little. Can you blame me, though? I _am_ a professional thief. Don't generally hand out cards with my life story on them. Bad for business." Kelly just shook her head.

The two women turned their heads as the elevator doors opened. They heard the _thunk thunk_ of armored feet as Garrus turned the corner, heading straight for Gardner's kitchen. The turian was silent as he opened one of the refrigeration units and rummaged through a box within, picking out two or three dozen purple ration tubes. Arms full, he closed the door with one foot and lumbered over to the table next to them.

"Hi Garrus!" Kelly said.

The scarred turian looked at her. "Yeoman Chambers," he said, nodding. "Kasumi." Even gloved, his talons made short work peeling the wrapping off of one of the purple tubes. At their curious looks, he held up his meal for them to see. "Shepard bought us a crate of dextro rations on the Citadel, and I'll be damned if I let Tali get away with all the topo berry ones this time. Have to get them quick or they'll be all gone by tomorrow." He stuffed the bar whole into his mouth, his mandibles clattering as he swallowed.

"Very nice," Kelly said, grinning. "I'm trying to figure out how much of Kasumi's background is real and how much is just a tall tale. How much do we _really_ know?"

Garrus 'hmmm'ed noncommittally as he opened a second bar. "Well, she's definitely a real thief," he said absently. "Looked her up on the extranet. No appearance on record but several major art thefts to her name. Doesn't like scars, if Tali's to be believed."

Kelly raised a curious eyebrow but Kasumi just smiled. "Maybe I'm just not a _fangirl_," she said. "And I'm definitely not just a thief. I'm the _best_ thief."

Garrus shrugged again, unimpressed. "I've stolen stuff too. Warehouses of it, in fact. Drugs, guns, mechs. Just about everything."

Kasumi crossed her arms. "Uh-huh. But can you do _this?_" she asked. With a mental command her stealth field activated. She felt a chill in her bones as she winked out of existence.

Garrus just stared at the empty space where she'd been sitting. "Maybe you're just the thief with the best equipment," he grunted. "Doesn't make you the best thief."

"It does if I _stole _all the equipment from military bases on eight worlds," she said with her disembodied voice.

"Ahh."

Kelly drummed at her chin, thinking. "So, she's a thief. 'Best' is debated, but I think we can call her a good thief, at least. Steals mostly art. I wonder why."

"She's poor and irresponsible?" Garrus suggested, and Kasumi made another little mental note for him. Turians didn't tend to suffer criminals very cheerfully, but if Garrus bore her any ill will he was doing a good job hiding it behind indifference.

"Nah, she's not poor. She's not a hoarder. More like a kleptomaniac. Steals for thrills."

Kasumi reappeared on the opposite side of the table, her lips pursed around one of Zaeed's cigars as she lit it with Mordin's laser sterilizer. "I don't steal for guddamn thrills, Missy," she lied in her best imitation of Zaeed's gravelly voice, giving it a few exaggerated puffs. She grinned cheekily.

"I'm guessing the part about Keiji was true. You looked so sad."

Kasumi's grin disappeared and the cigar drooped in her mouth. She said nothing. It was true, in most versions of her invented backstories she found a way to include Keiji somewhere. Call her a romantic fool, but her time with him was the only part of her life she refused to part with.

Kelly seemed to sense her unease and changed the subject. "So. Illium in a few hours," she said, cheerful face lighting up the room like a beacon. "Excited for some shore leave, Garrus?"

The turian shook his head, not looking up from where he was tucking the extra ration bars into the various compartments of his armor. "None for me," he said. "Shepard and I are going to go visit an old friend in Nos Astra, see if she can help us find this Krios guy."

"Aww," Kelly cooed, placing a sympathetic hand on Garrus' shoulder. "You guys work too hard. The whole crew has been itching to get off the ship. Why aren't you?"

"It's our job, Yeoman Chambers," he said. "Shepard and I will rest when it's done."

"Won't be easy," Kasumi interjected. "I've heard of Krios. He isn't going to just let you walk up to him." Few assassins did. Not so stealthy as thieves or spies, in her opinion, but close.

"All the more reason to get started now while the crew blows off steam."

"Might be able to help with that, actually," Kasumi said, snuffing out Zaeed's cigar and putting it back into one of her pockets in case she had to imitate him again later. "I have a few old contacts on Illium, might be able to point us in the right direction."

Garrus' mandibles flicked. He stared at her for a moment, as if gauging her intentions. "Good. The shorter we're planetside, the better," he said finally. "Besides, Illium's hardly my idea of a vacation spot. Reminds me too much of Omega."

Kasumi nodded. "Yeah, Illium's boring. Everybody's so stuffy there."

"Aww, come on," Kelly said. "You said you spent time there. There must be _something _fun to do." Her face suddenly lit up with excitement. "Oooh, maybe you can show me the sights when we get there! It'll be like a girl's night out!" She grabbed Kasumi's arm and gave her a pleading look. "We can go see a show, or see the glowing lakes! Or go shopping!"

"I don't generally 'shop' in the conventional sense," Kasumi warned, and Kelly gave her a chiding look. Kasumi stared evenly down at the woman's barely-contained enthusiasm and sighed. "Fiiiine." She let her shoulders droop for a moment before an idea occurred. "But only if you tell me when Jacob uses the weight room."

Kelly gave a sudden start, eyes wide as she looked about nervously. "I wouldn't know about that…" Behind her, Garrus just rolled his beady eyes as he gathered up the rest of his stolen food and headed for the battery, leaving Kelly laughing anxiously in his wake.

As soon as the door slid shut behind him, however, all of Kelly's apprehension disappeared under a wicked grin. She leaned in conspiratorially to whisper in Kasumi's ear, her eyebrows dancing suggestively. "Seven to nine every night in the armory, then an hour in the weight room as soon as Zaeed's done."

–

There was much jubilation.

The SR2's crew was being allowed off the ship for the first time in months, and on Illium – a world renown for its loose morals and readily available debauchery – no less! They'd gathered in throngs in the docking bay on Nos Astra while Shepard talked to the concierge, and everywhere Kasumi could feel the ripples of impatience working their way through the crowds, whispered plans and groans of excitement over the delicious smells they could detect wafting over from Nos Astra's hundreds of famous restaurants.

After what felt like hours to some (but was in fact only minutes), Shepard finally parted ways with the asari port authorities and turned to address his crew.

"Alright, listen up everybody!" he shouted. Almost immediately a hush fell over the assembled crowd. They lined up in the shadow of the Normandy, their excitement palpable. Even Shepard looked better than usual. "We're going to be on Illium for the next two days, perhaps more," he said. "I know you're all excited to get out there, but we need to set up a few ground rules." He paused, staring from face to face to make sure he had their attention. "I've transferred some money from the ship's funds to each of you. Feel free to use it how you like. If you find something you think the ship could use, call it in to either Miranda or Sergeant Gardner to get fund approval."

"Two words: Spinning. Rims," Joker shouted to a chorus of laughter.

Shepard ignored him. He began to pace. "Don't sign anything. I don't want any of you accidentally selling yourselves into slavery while you still work for me. But _whatever_ you do, be _careful_. Illium is a safe world but that does not mean there aren't dangers. Do not break the law, do not attract attention. We are not criminals, but-"

"Pfft," Jack spat from where she was perched on the Normandy's wing, up and away from the rest of the crowd.

Shepard hesitated. "Okay. Jack's a criminal. But the rest of us-"

Kasumi raised her hand, "I'm kind of one too, Shep."

Shepard rubbed his forehead. "Okay. Jack and Kasumi are criminals. And Garrus, come to think of it. And Zaeed. And Cerberus in general…" He sighed. "Never mind. The point is, our mission is a _secret_. Keep your mouths shut. We don't need any more enemies than we have already. Garrus and I are heading to meet with Dr. T'Soni in the market district, so we may be off the radar for a while. If you need help, Miranda and Mordin are staying with the ship." He paused again. "Got it?"

There was a chorus of agreement.

"Then get out of here."

They didn't need to be told twice. The crew dispersed in all directions, disappearing in throngs to Nos Astra's casinos, restaurants, shops, and bars. Kasumi followed behind. Whatever she'd said, she wasn't about to miss the opportunity for a little freedom. As far as she could tell the Normandy didn't make many stops. She caught sight of Kelly's fiery hair and started walking. As she stepped off of loading ramp, however, she felt a tug on her arm. She turned to face Shepard and Garrus, fully-armored and grim-faced.

"Garrus tells me you think you might have a contact here who can help us with Thane Krios," Shepard said.

Kasumi nodded. "Yup. Asari whose been in the information business for a decade or two around here. Wouldn't call her a _friend_, per se, but she might have something for us."

"Go see what she can tell us, then. Might be Liara doesn't know anything, we need all the leads we can get. I want to be off this planet as fast as soon as possible."

"Yessir," Kasumi agreed with an elaborate salute. She tossed a sympathetic glance Kelly's way.

"I'm sending Zaeed with you," Shepard added. Behind him, the mercenary (who'd been with the 'about to drink until their livers imploded' group with Donnelly, Daniels, and Hadley) stopped in his tracks. His silver head slumped. "He'll make sure you get by safe."

Zaeed plodded over, a dour look on his scarred lips. "…New girl needs help talking to an old friend?" he whined. "I sure hope she doesn't bruise herself picking up a goddamn communicator."

Shepard grinned and nodded. "This _is_ Illium, Zaeed. I'm sure it'll be quick, and then you can get on to refilling your medkits."

Zaeed's shoulders drooped a little more. It was obvious he was biting back another retort, but the commander's gaze left no room for debate. "Roger that, Commander…" he said at last, looking resigned.

As Shepard and Garrus walked away, Kasumi elbowed the mercenary in the ribs. "Don't worry, Z-man. It'll be fun."

Zaeed's voice and expression were equally deadpan. "Yippee…"

–

Zaeed's voice (long past deadpan) followed her out of the taxi.

"So there we were, crash landed on top of this cliff," he said, waving his hand in the air to draw out the cliff for Kasumi. "Sulfur atmosphere leakin' in every one of the thousand goddamn cracks in our hull, next to no supplies, and only three working gas masks between the six of us. Screwed, right?"

"Mmmhmmm…" Kasumi said absently, rolling her eyes beneath her hood. The taxi gave a beep.

"Transportation complete," it said in a pleasant female voice. "Your account will be charged automatically. Thank you for using the Nos-Astra Skypark Transport Ser-" it flickered and quieted as Kasumi waved her omni-tool in front of its console. For a few seconds, it was silent, and then "Taxi 0161 restored to factory defaults. Returning to berth." It awoke with a quiet hiss and, pivoting smoothly around, it flew off into the busy Illium skyways and was lost amongst the traffic.

Kasumi gave the retreating hovercar a coy wave before turning on her heel. They'd landed on one of the rooftop plazas of the Ishium Building, a towering, keel-shaped skyscraper on the outskirts of Nos Astra. At this dizzying height the thin air held a permanent chill and cloud cover concealed most of the city below from view, but that hadn't stopped the asari from building one of their most elaborate residential complexes. Apartments up here were safe, expensive, and private – the perfect location for an information broker to set up shop.

Presently, the plaza was abandoned but for the trickle of a massive carved fountain. Thick flurries of snow drifted gently outside, but the cold weather sizzled against the plaza's shields and behind them it was balmy and comfortable. Walled front courtyards leaned in from every side, no doubt bristling with security, but Kasumi spotted her contact's apartment and set off for its front gate like she owned the place.

Behind her, Zaeed kept up his story. "Not as screwed as you might think," he said, pride in his voice. "Me and one of my mates decide that if we can't get a signal through where we were, we might as well go try on one of the other cliffs. So we take two of the masks and what food we had left over and started to climb down. Anyway, turns out the canyon's a lot deeper than it looks – takes us two bloody days to reach the bottom. Time we get there we're outta food, our filters are clogging, and every goddamn breath we took tasted like the foulest crap you could imagine. Lungs were practically burning away. We're just about ready to lay down and die when my mate notices the ground under our boot's made of red metal. We dig it up a little, brush it off, you know, and we see a _very_ familiar logo. Turned out we'd crashed right on top of another ship, and not just _any_ ship." He grinned at Kasumi. "The _Aegukka_." He nodded, clearly immensely pleased with himself, and stared expectantly at her.

"Umm…," Kasumi said, screwing up her face in thought as she vaulted over a decorative marble wall, "What's the _Aegukka?_"

Zaeed's face fell. He followed her brisk pace easily, never missing a beat, but it was clear that hadn't been the response he'd been looking for. "Are you kidding me? Are you _goddamn_ kidding me?" His eye held a crazed gleam. "What kind of deaf little princess ain't heard of the largest goddamn human ship ever lost in space? The first goddamn human battleship! The goddamn biggest, stupidest pile of guns ever strapped to a rocket?"

Kasumi shrugged. "Me, I guess."

"Unbe-frickin-lievable," Zaeed said, burying his face in one gauntleted hand. "How old are you?"

"Twenty eight?"

Zaeed grimaced, rolling his mismatched eyes. "Of course you are," he muttered bitterly. "Whole ship's full of bloody goddamn children. It's like a goddamn preschool, nobody old enough to have heard of the _Aegukka_. Just me and Gardner. Jesus Christ."

"What about Doctor Chakwas? She seems nice."

Zaeed nodded vigorously, suddenly wistful. "Aye, Chakwas. Now there's a classy lady. _She_'d know that ship, mark my words."

Kasumi smiled. "Aww… does Zaeed have a little crush on the doctor?"

"What! No!" he shouted, his scarred face reddening. "Jesus Christ, girlie, what the hell is wrong with you?" He sighed. "I'm too old for that crap."

Kasumi's grin just widened as the two of them approached the gate. "I think it's cute. Want me to put in a good word for you?"

Zaeed drew his gun.

Kasumi just laughed. "Relax, Z-man. Just kidding. I'm sure you're actually quite heartless. Now quit your bellyaching, we're here." She gestured to the massive steel gate protecting her contact's glamorous home. Zaeed stared up at it like he was seeing it for the first time.

"Huh," he said, watching as she started working her magic on the gate's lock. Her fingers worked quickly, her omni-tool even quicker. A few seconds was all it took her to get through it, and the gate slid aside.

"Greetings, Nyxeris. Welcome home," the security VI said, and Kasumi smirked. She stepped through the gate into Nyxeris' well-groomed garden yard without hesitation. The garden was practically a jungle, carefully tended behind climate-control fields and so humid Kasumi could taste the tang of fertilizer in the air.

"Nyxeris, huh?" Zaeed asked, following behind. "Friend of yours?"

"Hardly." The two of them walked up to the house's circular door. It was, like the rest of the house, of exquisite make, its panels inlaid with blue stained Thessian glass. Rich offworld plants, laden with comma-shaped fruits, hung from ceramic hooks on the roof edge.

Zaeed eyed the house's vehicle port. "No hovercar in the dock. Not home, then. Not planning to meet her in person?"

Kasumi shook her head as she set to work on the front door. "Nah, Nyxeris is a bitch," she said, cutting the door's hidden alarm with casual ease. "I'm planning to rob her blind, so I honestly hope she stays far, far away for the next hour or so. Want to come?" The door came open easily, and she gestured into the house.

Zaeed's creased face frowned as he stared warily into the house. "Shepard told us not to break any laws," he said. "Pretty sure robbery is against the law even on Illium."

Kasumi sighed. For a battle-hardened mercenary, he sure was spineless. "He _also_ told us to find what info we could on Krios. Nyxeris will have something in there, I promise you. And if she _was_ here, she wouldn't give it to _us._ So we have to take it." She padded into the house and was relieved to not hear any hidden security measures pop up. "You coming or not?"

Zaeed fixed her with his piercing stare. "Why should I risk my ass on this?"

"She probably has a bar."

"I'm in."

–

Kasumi found Nyxeris' computers easily enough – she had over twenty of them in a tower cluster stacked in the house's enormous foyer, their screens cycling through dozens of images as they scanned local and galactic news feeds. Forearm-thick cables, carefully disguised into the molding of a Celcuc-marble countertop, carried the data to a concealed server bank in the basement. Kasumi approached the consoles slowly, eyes scanning for any hidden security she might have missed. Stealing from intensely private people like Nyxeris was usually pretty easy – they didn't trust guards or police – but it meant they tended to have the most elaborate and dangerous security systems.

Luckily, Nyxeris apparently believed her house's remote location and door security would be enough. As soon as Kasumi put a hand to the keyboards the computers came alive. "Welcome, User," they said, their screens flickering to life. "Please approach palm scanner to verify identity." There was a whirr and a scanner presented itself from a hidden compartment.

Behind her, Zaeed snorted. "Uh oh."

"Please," Kasumi said, rolling her eyes. "If this is all she has, she's about to be disappointed." She gestured to the scanner. "This is an older Asa twenty one. Asari design. Only recognizes asari hands."

"Left my lucky Asari hand keychain at home," Zaeed said sarcastically.

Kasumi grinned at him, unflustered. "Then we just get through it the old fashioned way. It has a weakness. They all do. Just have to know the tricks."

"And you know them?"

"Will in a second," she said with a smirk, turning back to the scanner. She paused, closing her eyes, and called forth her graybox interface. The haptic screen flickered to life across her face.

"Bubblegum," she said.

In an instant, her head was flooded with memories. With the tag word spoke, everything she'd ever learned about breaking skin scanners rifled through her brain with perfect clarity. She skimmed the memories like pages in a book, following the graybox's inhumanly-perfect organization until she'd ferreted out the right one. The file blazed in her head. "Ahh yes, here it is. Asa models."

"_Bubblegum_?"

"Yup," Kasumi said, hands already fast at work. "Had to jog the memory. Turns out the Asa models only recognize asari, but they're based entirely on transmission patterns instead of any kind of fingerprint or DNA scan. Thickness of muscle, shape of the bones, that kind of thing. It'll recognize us as foreign easy enough, but if we just make a few minor adjustments…" with a flick of her wrist, she'd pulled a tiny awl out of one of her hidden pockets and jammed it into the scanner's back panel, "pry off this back part here and introduce a little fuzziness…" She pulled open the back of the scanner and spat into its innards, right onto the sensor diode, which gave a sizzle. Satisfied, she set it back down and shot Zaeed an arrogant grin. "Try it," she said, pointing to the scanner.

Zaeed stared suspiciously at her for a moment before slowly pulling off one of his gloves and placing his gnarled hand into the machine. "Scanning… scanning… scanning." The machine gave a displeased beep. "I'm sorry, scan failed. Please remove your hand and try again." Zaeed's eyebrow creaked upwards as he tried again – the scanner did no better the second time. The two of them watched as the scanner worked on Zaeed's hand again and again, each time failing to come up with an image it recognized as foreign or otherwise. Eventually, the scanner gave a click and turned off. "I'm sorry, but this scanner appears to be nonfunctional. Please enter your authorization code manually."

The screens flickered to show a more conventional login screen. "And this," Kasumi said proudly, "can be hacked by anybody with a brain. Oh, and a graybox in that brain. That's important too."

Zaeed concealed his approval behind a snort. "A graybox? Why you tricky little tart."

"Zipper," she said, and her head was filled with computer codes and programs. It took only a few seconds to find the right one to bypass Nyxeris' security (part of a factory reset program that Asa employees carried, as it turned out) and the computers yielded to her.

She was Kasumi. Security systems were putty in her hands. Muahahahahaha.

The computers gave her no further trouble, offering her access to Nyxeris' considerable databases of illicit information. She found every reference to Thane Krios she could get, memorizing each with an imagined command to her graybox, before moving on to other topics of interest. You never knew when you'd need to know some celebrity dirt on Illium.

"Pretty impressive, got to admit," Zaeed said, watching Kasumi's practiced fingers fly across the keyboards at blazing speed. "You just say a stupid codeword and you got any skill you want, huh?"

Kasumi shrugged. "More or less. Marmalade."

Zaeed looked at her. "What's that one for?"

Kasumi shrugged again. "Nothin'. Just a fun word to say. _Marmalade_."

–

The data in hand (or… head, really), Kasumi set to casing the rest of Nyxeris' home. Whoever paid Nyxeris paid her well, and the expensive home was filled to the gills with expensive toys. The asari was mostly pretty tacky, in Kasumi's not-so-humble opinion, but she clearly shared her enthusiasm for artwork. Dozens of sculptures and paintings filled every room, each one meticulously labeled and lit by attractive floodlights. Kasumi paced around the halls at her leisure, appraising each piece like the wealthiest art critic on the Citadel.

She tried to ignore the crashing she could hear in the background as Zaeed ransacked the home. The brutish mercenary had apparently gotten over his initial anxiety and was now helping himself to money, jewelry, food, and the contents of Nyxeris' generous wine cellar. Kasumi heard the clinking of bottles well before she saw Zaeed join her in front of an abstract sculpture from Thessia. The smell of asari wine hung around him like a cloud. "Pretty damn ugly," he said, grunting towards the statue as he took another swig.

"I don't know," Kasumi said, cocking her head to one side. "Kinda simplistic, but I like the use of negative space."

"Uh huh," Zaeed said absently, draining the rest of the bottle. He set it down on the statue's base and cracked the lid from another.

Kasumi glared at him.

"…What?"

She shook her head. "You ever rob a place like this before?"

"…No."

"Let me give you a tip, then." She picked up his empty bottle and waved it in his face, smiling sweetly. "This bottle does not go here, Z-Man," she said, tapping the bottle against Zaeed's craggy chin. "This bottle has _spit_ on it. Spit has _DNA_ in it. DNA is a _clue_. Right now, you and me are _thieves._ In someone's _home_. If we get _caught_, we go to _prison_, which is _unpleasant_. So we… _Don't. Leave. Clues._"

Zaeed grimaced. "I was going to throw it in the trash on the way out."

"Listen, I know you don't have a graybox, so you might just have to come up with an acronym or something to help you remember, but this is important. You and me _Don't. Leave. Clues._" She put a finger to her chin. "Or we'll _Die. Like…_" She paused, thinking up a workable C word. "_Completely_," she finished, satisfied.

"Poetry," Zaeed said sarcastically, taking the bottle and tucking it into one of his holsters. "I'll be sure to take that to heart." He gestured to the other bottles in his arms, along with the few dozen gem-inlaid bracelets around each wrist. "Well, I got all I want. You get the data on the lizard man?"

"Right here," Kasumi confirmed, tapping her forehead.

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

"Wait, wait, wait," Kasumi said, patting him on the shoulder. She gestured to the statue. "I want it."

Zaeed eyed it dubiously. "That thing's bigger than you are. How are you going to carry it out of here?"

Kasumi laughed. "I'm not." She gave him a wicked grin.

–

Kasumi strolled out of Nyxeris' house, a box of Zaeed's confiscated liquor (about twenty pounds) and one data disk (about an ounce) richer. It was good to be a thief.

"You got a memory saved under _pain in the ass little thief_?" Zaeed bellowed, huffing and puffing as he struggled to fit Kasumi's statue (two hundred thirty-one pounds) through the door.

Kasumi grinned at him. "Not yet, Z-man. Not yet."

–

* * *

**Codex entry: The **_**Aegukka**_

The decades after the discovery of the Martian ruins were a time of great change on Earth. Supernational organizations, which had been gaining power since before the turn of the century, blossomed to dominate the global political stage almost overnight. Suddenly people worldwide were realizing a need to ally as fellow humans against the dangers of the universe as a whole. Religions restructured, sworn enemies with thousand-year-old conflicts dropped their arms, and the new race was on.

The universe had grown, but who was going to control it?

New technologies – based on Prothean relics or otherwise – exploded forward as the supernational organizations banded together to conquer the logistics of space exploration. In less than twenty years more than two hundred Alliance warships were constructed, each one an improvement on the last.

One dream, however, remained elusive. The discovery of mass effect fields had quickly established railgun weaponry as state-of-the-art, and it was widely understood that bigger ships could carry longer barrels and thus fire faster, harder, and to much greater effect. The goal of the space dreadnaught (then defined as any ship exceeding .75 kilometers in length) was on every government's mind. Even as they cooperated to build smaller ships, several supernational organizations started up their own secret dreadnaught programs, recruiting elite scientists to tackle the logistical problems of how to build a ship the size of a small city. While dreadnaughts remained the holy grail, however, they were largely considered a pipe dream by engineers at the time, due to the difficulties of construction – dreadnaughts were much too large to build in atmosphere and fly into orbit, even with the aid of mass effect fields, and so would have to be built in space. Without a bigger space presence, it was agreed, dreadnaughts were simply too impractical to build, and indeed the first Alliance dreadnaughts did not begin construction until after the First Contact War, with the assistance of alien technologies and designs.

There is, however, one notable exception. The first human dreadnaught was, in fact, not built by the Alliance, but thirteen years earlier by the Communist Republic of the Eastern Front (CREF), an isolationist confederacy in Southeast Asia. Highly isolationist politics had made certain Asian regions into cultural islands that were among the only areas to resist the influence of the supernational organizations. CREF was a highly militant collection of separate nations that believed in maintaining sovereignty over their own lands, even as the supernational organizations gobbled up most of the world around them. Together, CREF remained the single loudest voice against unification, and throughout the twenty-second century they came into greater and greater conflict with the rest of the world.

While generally viewed as somewhat backwards and dangerous by the rest of the world, CREF nonetheless managed to construct the first working dreadnaught, which it launched – to the Alliance's great surprise – in 2156. The _Aegukka_ was a long, thin craft, but nonetheless the largest vehicle humanity had ever constructed at just over seven hundred fifty meters in length. How it was built without detection is still not known, but analysis of satellite imagery suggests that it was built in much smaller, interchangeable segments, which could be individually ferried into orbit and assembled. While this method of construction prevented the inclusion of a full-sized railgun, the _Aegukka _was nonetheless more heavily armed than any contemporary ship, sporting at least 142 separate heavy artillery pieces and 48 GARDIAN batteries.

Reactions to the _Aegukka _varied. Many considered it a dangerous sign of where humanity was headed – it was often popularly referred to as _Sputnik-2 _and rumors abounded that CREF would use it to attack one of the Alliance's then-relatively poorly defended extraterran holdings. Others thought the ship was a joke, a poorly-conceived plea for attention by an increasingly irrelevant splinter group. The fact that CREF had decided to paint the entire craft with more than 100,000 gallons of bright red paint, along with countless flags and other patriotic images, was considered especially telling of their real motivations.

Luckily, fears of the _Aegukka _being used against the Alliance were not borne out – the ship was sent through the Charon mass relay with much fanfare and never seen again. The ship's disappearance was quickly elevated to the level of legend, frequently compared to the twentieth-century _Titanic _or _Challenger _disasters_, _but, aside from its use as a symbol for the dangers of carrying Earth's political troubles into space (ironically by the very pro-unification groups CREF opposed), it was largely overshadowed by the beginnings of the Contact War the following year.

Thirty years later, the fate of the _Aegukka _remains unknown. Most experts agree that life support technologies of the time too primitive for the ship to go more than a year or two without resupplying, but no such sightings have yet been reported. Speculations as to its ultimate fate vary – some insist it never made it through the relay at all, while others maintain it ultimately accomplished its mission and is spreading communism throughout unknown systems even now. Most experts, however, suspect that the ship stumbled into batarian territory and was shot down, but precisely where remains a mystery, despite dozens of supposed crash site discoveries.

–

* * *

**A/N: **I... RETURN!

So, yeah. Grad school's a lot of work, turns out. Sorry it took so long to get this update out, but I'm a busy guy these days.

I love Kasumi. She doesn't have the same special place in my heart that Zaeed does, but she's similarly badass (and I dread to think of her getting cut from ME3). I realize I've painted her a little differently than the game does, not least of which by giving her a different excuse to join the crew, but I think it's a neat character. A fun combination of cheerfulness and dubious morality. And she's a smartass besides Joker for me to use! Expect to see her a lot for the rest of the story.

A very special thanks to both my usual beta, Angurvddel, and my guest beta GaggedCenobite for their help with this chapter.

And the obligatory (but quite sincere) thanks to you readers and reviewers.

I figure the owner of chapter 16 shouldn't be a surprise to anyone, since I've all but said it two chapters in a row now, but let me just say that he's the first character for whom there can't be enough flashbacks. Aww yeah. Expect 16 a faster than this one, because I'm _really _excited about chapter 17, which is about some of the coolest, coolest characters ever made in anything ever.


	16. Chapter 16, Solipsis, Thane Krios

**Solipsis – Thane Krios**

* * *

–

News traveled quickly on Illium. The planet was a hotbed of gossip and intrigue, populated by celebrity worshippers watching the loudest and the richest unfold their personal dramas in front of a billion hidden cameras. Every omni-tool, every ocular implant, every extranet terminal was tuned to pick up all the latest scandals, and if you forgot yours at home, the hundred-foot holographic viewscreens plastered on every other building would do just as well. One fashion faux pas might mean hours of coverage.

So the death of one of the planet's wealthiest businesswomen would be everywhere for days. Nassana Dantius' oft-disbelieved heart had hardly stopped beating when her top-of-the-line medical implants had called for help, and despite the top-price services of some of Illium's few discrete doctors, her death proceeded as her life had – in the limelight.

All told it was a mere four minutes and thirty-seven seconds from the time of Nassana's death to the time her obituary was splashed over every screen on the planet. The updates came swiftly thereafter as the press converged on the unfinished Dantius Towers like a swarm of carrion flies.

_'Salarian massacre at Dantius Towers_' read one headline (five minutes, twelve seconds).

'_Asari business merger ends in tragedy' _noted another (five minutes, twenty-six seconds).

But the _real _story didn't truly begin until the last of the injured mercenaries was escorted out of the building by none other than Commander Shepard himself. The press moved in without reservation and the dead Spectre's grizzled face joined Nassana's as billions of Illium-ites tuned in to watch the fireworks.

But even as flocks of camera drones from every station on Illium swarmed to hear Shepard's attempt to stem the tide of questions, no one noticed a lone figure slipping out one of the towers' back windows. The figure's movements were utterly silent as he maneuvered the narrow ledges, unbothered by the way the building swayed in the wind and the ocean of police lights and camera flashes below. A modest hovercar awaited him, tucked covertly under a ledge like a sleeping tuk-bird, and the figure leapt in and disappeared into the traffic lanes without a backwards glance.

All of Illium was awash with the breaking scandal (_Deadly Love Triangle: Jilted Hero of the Citadel Kills Secret Lover Dantius in a Rage _read the newest headline) by the time the figure resurfaced in the dim lights of the Eternity bar as a new being, unconnected and unknown. His background was freshly cut away, his accounts emptied, his hideouts abandoned, his vehicle donated. His past was gone, his future uncertain, and his present reduced to the clothes on his back, the freshly-serviced weapons in his holsters, and a single clay jar no larger than his thumb.

Thane Krios was soundless as a ghost as he strode through the Eternity doors. The bar was almost empty – its only patrons a sleeping elcor and a pair of asari too engaged in their game of iristil-tiles to pay attention to him – but still he selected the quietest, most out of the way corner he could find before he took his seat.

Drell were not known for being effusive, but Thane looked positively grim as he uncapped the jar, sending thin wisps of red-white dust curling through the air in front of him.

_…(Blue fingers, scales supple against my hand, grasp demanding I yield. The dry smell of Rakhana joins her perfume. "Asash-felah," she says, voice like ancient wind as she paints me. A gentle touch beneath each eye. "For penance." One stripe. "For forgiveness." Two stripes)…_

Thane thrust a finger into the jar and jabbed the now-familiar marks beneath his eyes. The rosy powder – the ash of Rakhanan bones – had a heady smell that tugged at his memory. Reminded him of her.

So much did. So many things made him wish to reminisce. But there was no time. He pushed aside happier thoughts as he returned the jar to his pocket and inclined his head.

"Quetarch," he prayed, eyes downcast behind their painted lids, "Arbiter of wise sin, justifier of will." He paused, his lower lip trembling of its own accord. "Heed your child. Grant me forgiveness for the weakness of my will and for the sloth of my hands. I willed today and innocents lost their lives. I willed today and forgot the innocents before me." He took a breath, ignoring the rattling in his chest. "Accept my repentance; give me the strength to redeem myself."

His mouth stilled but he remained in position, his fingers clasped around one another, his eyes closed. In his head he fought for how to continue. How to make amends for himself now. He remembered every time he'd ever invoked one of the gods, remembered Irikah's lessons on prayer in exacting detail, but it had been near a decade since the last time he had felt the need to beg pardon from Quetarch.

There was more to be said. More to be asked. More penance to be given. But Thane could see none of it.

He opened his eyes.

"Hey there."

Anyone else might have jumped in fright at the asari's sudden voice, but Thane's pupils took their time flitting upward to her face. The bartender leaned casually against the wall, her arms crossed across her chest and a pleasant smirk on her blue lips. She stared at him. "Don't see many drell here," she said after a moment, shrugging, "but I think I remember a few drinks that'll put a shiver in your scales. What'll you have? Cacta-beer? Twelve Scutes? Rakhanan Sunrise?"

_…(Every color imaginable, reds and yellows and blues and blacks, sinking into a bleak horizon. This world is dead, but this moment is perfect. She shifts her weight deeper into my lap, rests her head beneath my chin. Her warmth fills me as the day's recedes)…_

Thane was quiet for a moment, his mind lost. "Water, please," he said eventually. "Five glasses."

One of the asari's eyebrows rose, but after a moment she gave a short nod and strode off to the rear counter to prepare his drinks. Her hands balanced the five glasses with casual ease as she set them in front of him.

Thane could feel her eyes on him as he examined the water. He knew it was pure – why would the Eternity make a habit of poisoning its customers? – but old habits died hard. He held one glass beneath his nose for a moment, tasting the air above it, before giving a satisfied nod and downing the glass in a single sip. The others followed in short order, his ribbed throat rippling as he emptied each one.

"Wow," the asari said once he'd set the final empty glass aside. "Thirsty?"

"Preparing," Thane said. He had calculated it out. Three point two liters of water – the most he could store in his body before its weight would begin to slow him down – would last him nearly a month if he was careful. Hopefully Shepard's mission would conclude before then. If not, he would have to find a way to secure another three point two liters, and in the worst case maybe even a third. But after that… it wouldn't matter anymore. He gave an imperceptible smirk as he remembered Irikah telling him that the ancient pagan drell measured time in mouthfuls of water. Now he did the same. Oh, the irony.

"Preparing for what?"

Thane hesitated. Some part of him wanted to tell her about his plans (how great it would be to hear her reassure him that joining the commander was the right move!), but a larger part urged caution. Shepard had made it clear he was trying to keep a low profile – and Thane had already caused him enough problems by leaving him to deal with the Dantius mess. He stared at the bartender. "Would you prefer silence or an untruth?"

The asari waved her hand. "Never mind. Forget I asked." She sighed wearily, staring past Thane's shoulder. "Everyone on Illium is so damn secretive. Would it kill this planet to toss me some interesting conversations?"

Thane frowned. "I apologize if I have offended you. The sensitive nature of my work is such that-"

"Matriarch Aethyta," the asari interrupted, grabbing his thumb and squeezing it with her own in a traditional drell greeting. "You got a name?"

Thane hesitated again. "…Would you prefer silence or an untruth?"

Aethyta just shook her head, smiling despite herself. "Okay, okay," she said, pulling up a barstool to sit opposite him. "No name then either. Should I just call you 'drell' then? Or can I come up with one of my choice?"

Thane managed a short smile. "I would be honored," he said.

"I'll think about it. First instinct is to name you after how you look." She pointed to the sleeping elcor, "You know, like fat-face over there, or eyebrows at the next table," she said, arm sweeping to one of the gaming asari whose eyebrows, indeed, looked to have been painted on with a roller brush. Aethyta's eyes narrowed as she stared at Thane. "But it isn't coming to me for you. You're a pretty son of a bitch, I'll give you that."

"Thank you," Thane said, diverting his gaze. His mind drifted back to the ruddy markings he'd traced on his lower eyelids. If Aethyta knew what they meant – all the pagan myths of Phryn the Blood-Crier – she showed no sign, but they still prickled uneasily now that she was there to witness them. "Would you mind terribly if I prayed?"

"What for?"

Thane paused. "Forgiveness. Guidance. Strength."

"Kind of greedy, aren't you?"

Thane nodded emptily. "As are we all." Aethyta shrugged and Thane bowed his head, resuming his wordless prayers. It was not that he was embarrassed to be seen praying to a near-extinct deity – far from it – but some part of his upbringing made it hard to admit his flaws aloud to others.

…_(Quetarch Arbiter, she says, a serpent of great beauty. Handless, bodyless. A creature of pure soul. She traces his shape in the sand. Blind and deaf but sees more than us all. Bodyless and better for it. She has me think on this, but Quetarch's body is not the one I ponder)…_

As soon as he'd finished he rubbed the ash away from his face with one hand. Aethyta seemed to take that as permission to continue. She rubbed at her chin. "Didn't figure drell asked for forgiveness," she mused. "Don't you guys do that copout thing where nothing is your fault because your body did it?"

Thane's face was blank. "Some drell," he corrected. "Most call their kind the Enkindled drell now. The pagan drell felt rather differently."

"So which kind are you?"

Thane hesitated yet again. It was a good question. "…both, I suppose," he said, staring into his hands, flexing his fleshy fingers against the bar counter. "I took lives today," he admitted finally. Aethyta did not react – he supposed she was used to the idea of violence. She might have even been a warrior herself – asari were difficult to predict on looks alone. "My body takes life often," Thane continued. "I do not enjoy it, but I do what I must and I do not feel guilt." He looked up at her. "Today I enjoyed it," he confessed. "Today I wanted to kill… Today I am responsible."

"Pffft," Aethyta said, waving a hand. "Big deal. You've killed people, I've killed people, my parents killed people, _their_ parents killed people. People kill people." She rolled her eyes. "It's the way of the galaxy. It's gotta be done. Why not enjoy it?"

A dozen arguments danced on Thane's tongue. Some were Mistress Preya's, her airy, ethereal voice explaining to his childhood self about the order of the universe, about how bad people were like any other bad situation, to be passionlessly removed without guilt, anger, or sympathy. Others were Irikah's, about the beauty of life itself, the duty of each person to protect the sacred balances, the intense personal responsibility that came with dealing death for the good of the universe. Thane had had his entire life to struggle with reconciling the two ideas, and he was no closer to it now. "I do not know," he said simply. That was the truth.

"But you still regret it?"

"…I do not know," he repeated. That was a lie. He regretted it, whether he wanted to appease Preya's teachings or Irikah's.

"Don't know much, do you?" Aethyta shook her head, smirking. "Think I'm gonna call you Zirwas," she announced.

Thane's lips curled for a moment. "Zirwas the Indecisive," he said, recognizing the name from his childhood.

_…(The clade-mother's fingers spread wide in front of the clear sky. It is a day without rain, and she traces our ancestors through the stars. Each story has a message. Zirwas stands at the ancient Rakhanan shore and ponders which foot to set in the water first. A million seasons pass as he ponders and the sea recedes. Rakhana is a desert now. The fire crackles.)…_

Aethyta nodded. "Which foot are you putting in the water, Zirwas?"

Thane was quiet. The tale of Zirwas was many-layered, but it was easy enough to guess what she was implying. He was hesitating at the shoreline and she knew it, even if he refused to tell her the details. How the asari knew such an obscure character from drell mythology he did not know, but he could feel Aethyta watching him, her eyes concealing a wisdom easily overlooked. She saw more than she seemed to see. He would be honest.

"I fear for my son," he admitted. "Kolyat."

Aethyta nodded, face grim. "You want to see him?"

Another good question. "I do not know," Thane said again. Of course he wanted to see Kolyat again. "I long to believe I have done what is right for him."

"Have you?"

Thane eyed Aethyta, somewhat taken aback by her simple tone. As if it was so easy, so straightforward. He didn't have a millennium to live. But the asari's expectant gaze was unrelenting. "…I do not know. I cannot know. I am not there for him, and I regret that with everything I am. But separate I cannot corrupt him, and I rejoice."

Aethyta shrugged again. "Eh. You know, whether you want to admit it or not. You left him somewhere, you feel bad, you want to know if you're doing the right thing." She distracted herself picking at her blue fingernails. "And you're gonna be lizard jerky before too long."

Thane's eyes widened at her words, but Aethyta just stared him down, daring him to disagree.

_...(This one is sorry to interrupt, but this one has bad news.)…_

"Yes," he admitted. "I will not survive the year." It felt strange saying it aloud.

"And yet even when your time's almost up you're sittin' on the shore, Zirwas. If you really thought you'd done the wrong thing you'd be trying to take it back about now. I think you know what you're doing."

"I wish I did."

"Listen to me, drell. I've been an orphan for nine centuries now."

Thane looked at her. "I am sorry."

"Me too," Aethyta admitted. "I miss them. But parents are overrated. Sometimes they do as much for you leaving as they do staying. I have a daughter. Never spoken to her in my life. Never plan to."

"Do you not miss her?"

"Every day, drell," Aethyta said, nodding. "Don't even know what she's like and I still miss her. But I stay away because that's what I can give her. She grew up thinking I didn't care about her and at this point that's nothing I can change. She grew up strong, on her own, and all I'm going to do by hunting her down is upset us both."

Thane paused. "Do you not fear dying without knowing her?"

Aethyta shrugged. "Dying's not the end, right? Siari and all that. Everything goes back to everything. But what do I know?"

Thane nodded behind her. "Everything goes back to everything," he agreed. He stood, pushing his chair back. "Thank you for the water, Matriarch Atheyta," he said quietly, placing a pair of twenty-credit chits – the last of the money he hadn't spent on supplies or dumped into Kolyat's account, in fact – on the counter. "And for your wisdom."

Aethyta smiled and picked up his empty glasses. "Hell, you're the first person to say _that_ in a long time," she said, turning to place them on the rear counter. "If you ever need to-" her sentence died as she turned back to emptiness.

Thane was gone.

"So… uh… Bye then."

–

Thane steeled himself as he stepped out from under the shadow of the Normandy. It was the dead of night, and no guard had been posted (though Thane had little doubt he was being watched, all the same. Call it assassin's intuition.)

He stared up into the belly of the beast, his eyelids nictating anxiously.

Commander Shepard's ship. The hero of the Citadel. A great man. A hero.

Or so he was told.

The man was famous for his uncanny ability to show up in the right place at the right time and turn the tide at a critical moment, and Thane could not help but notice how he'd done the same again. Thane had been ready to die killing Dantius, his final act pulling one last thorn from the palm of the galaxy. He'd been purposefully sloppy, leaving alive guards he might otherwise have neutralized, heading straight for the target with no exit plan in place. If Shepard hadn't been there he'd likely have had the time to take Nassana's life in the seconds before her guards riddled him with holes.

But Shepard _had _been there, and he'd given Thane a great gift. A further chance at redemption. Not just for the dead salarians, not just for the battle-lust Thane had felt while rushing to beat the commander to the target. But for all of Thane's many sins, all of his failures. A chance for one final act of contrition to the galaxy before he left it. One final unseen gift to Kolyat, one final apology to Irikah.

He should be overjoyed.

But he wasn't. Shepard had saved him from killing himself, true, and given him new purpose, also true, but he'd also awoken feelings the drell had thought long gone. Hearing Shepard's trainwreck of an infiltration team smashing their way through the tower levels, Thane had felt a rare streak of competition, had tasted and _wanted_ the hunt in a way he hadn't in ten years. By the time he'd reached Nassana, he was barely holding on behind his usual stony façade.

He'd wanted her dead.

For all their differences, Preya and Irikah would have agreed… He wasn't supposed to want his targets dead.

It never felt right in the end.

_

* * *

10 years previously…_

–

There were one hundred sixty-eight bones in the batarian body. Half of these were in the hands and feet – fragile but too small to cripple. Most of the others were too large and heavy – or too well protected under thick layers of fur and leathery skin – to break in a single strike, no matter how well focused. The skull could be broken under the bridge of the nose or the neck levered against the chin and snapped downward if death was the goal, but it was not yet time for that.

That left only two.

The batarian's four eyes widened in astonishment as Thane Krios – suddenly standing in front of him where an instant before had been nothing – latched onto both of his elbows. The drell's grip was strong, his movements lightning fast, and the batarian had only the briefest of moments to realize his mistake.

(..._impacts in the darkness...)_

Both elbows shattered under Thane's perfectly-focused blows, and the batarian yowled in agony through a cage of gritted needle teeth. The heavy alien's arms were limp and useless by the time he'd sunk to the floor, his scream echoing a thousand-fold in the darkened hallways. Unbidden tears streamed from all four eyes.

"Are you ready to listen to me?" Thane asked from down the hall, where his dark eyes watched the batarian's pain without emotion. The sickly emergency bulbs – the only light that remained on the Half-Hour station since he'd visited the command center – flickered anemically behind him, casting an eerie shadow.

The batarian swore, catching another pained gasp in his throat, and ever so slowly lifted his eyes to meet Thane's gaze. His breath came in pained wheezes that made his many nostrils quiver, but even teetering on the edge of consciousness, hate and rage gripped his face.

"You son of a bitch," he panted. "You damn son of a bitch!"

In a second Thane's hand had come down on the back of his head and darkness took him.

–

The batarian awoke to sound of crackling fire. His eyes blinked drunkenly as sense returned to him. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air.

"You are awake," a voice observed from nearby. The batarian gave a jolt and turned to see the drell – the very famous drell, the very famous drell who'd already cost him millions – sitting serenely against the backdrop of a small, crackling fire, set right in the center of the polished hallway, his hands clasped. Thane nodded at the batarian. "I hope you do not mind the fire," he said. "Without working life support the temperature is quickly becoming uncomfortably cold for me."

The batarian stared at him, brows raised in confusion.

"I do not possess your species' hardiness against the cold," Thane elaborated. "I am son of a hot world. Please forgive me."

The batarian swallowed wetly, trying to process the drell's words. One thing stood out. "You… knocked out life support?" he managed, voice slurred.

"I am afraid so," Thane confirmed. "I have no intention of leaving this station in working condition. When we are finished here I will activate the scuttle charges." His voice never lost its polite lilt.

Comprehension seemed to dawn all at once. "My men will… s-stop you," the batarian said, trying (and failing) to infuse his voice with menace.

"Unlikely," Thane said, cocking his head to one side in a gesture of respect. "With all due respect, those that have come for you so far have fared quite poorly indeed." He gestured with his chin towards a dark pile at the other end of the hallway. The batarian turned – it was too dark to see details, but he recognized the look of carnage when he saw it. His soldiers – at least a dozen of them – lay dead in a neat stack, their necks bent at obscene angles.

The batarian frowned. "You son of a b-b-bitch," he said.

"Do not try to talk yet," Thane interrupted. If he took any offense, he did not show it. "The painkillers I've given you will make it difficult. Later, later you will talk."

"What do you want from me?"

Thane did not answer for many seconds, his black eyes boring into the batarian's. His eyes never wavered, never blinked at all as he unclasped his hands and reached into one pocket, but the batarian cringed, sure he was about to die. His four eyes squeezed shut, preparing for the killing blow.

It did not come.

He opened his eyes to see Thane sitting right were he had been, a silver disk in one outstretched palm. It flickered to life, shimmering as an image – a smiling blue drell – resolved itself. "Please look at the holo," Thane instructed.

The batarian felt his hearts sink. He knew _that_ drell too. He looked away. "Piss off," he grunted.

There was an impact and a spurt of brown-black blood lanced across the wall. Thane was back in position so quickly it was as if he never moved, but the batarian's eye was gone all the same.

The batarian screamed again.

"With your remaining eyes, please look at the holo," Thane said, offering the projector again. The batarian shook with agony and rage, blood still pooling out of his newly-vacant eye socket, but lifted his head to stare at the image all the same. It flickered and moved, bringing the tiny drell to life.

Thane's face was set in a grim frown, looking anywhere but at the device in his hands. "This is Irikah Ahlio," he whispered. "The drell you killed."

The batarian gasped for a moment, his lips fighting for words. "I didn't… kill her."

"You ordered her death," Thane said. "Your minion was your tool, but it was your will, your responsibility." He held up the holo again. Irikah smiled brilliantly. "Please, look closely. This is Irikah Ahlio, my wife. She was a beautiful, beautiful creature, and I would have you look on her." The batarian obeyed, his dark eyes staring at the holo without comprehension. "I remember every moment with her with perfect clarity," Thane continued. "Every word she spoke to me, every lesson she gave. Every touch on my skin." He paused. "But you will never have this honor and so I bring you her image."

The batarian looked away to stare at Thane's impassive face. "What d-do you w-want me to do?" he wheezed.

"I would have you learn of Irikah," Thane said, voice quiet, betraying nothing. "Listen to me and I will share some of her wisdom with you." He cleared his throat.

_…(Spearheads in the dust. She picks one up, brushes the red away with her shirttail. Sunlight glimmers off of its face. It is a work of art, cast aside, its owners starved and dead. "Dalian clade," she says, handing it to me. "The Dalians were great spar-shela – great warriors, some of the greatest on Rakhana." I feel its weight and I believe it.)…_

"The ancient pagan drell despised fighting," Thane began, voice bouncing off of the darkened walls. "But they were great warriors." The batarian's remaining eyes followed Thane's lips, confusion in each one. "To a young drell, remembering in perfect clarity your first kill – the first time you visited death upon another – is a torturous thing. To never forget the look on your foe's face as life left them."

…_(My lessons ring endlessly in my mind. Years of drills under Ontaja come to this moment. The human pauses, looks over his shoulder. His eyes glimmer as he recognizes me, but it is too late. I close in. My hands are Illuminated Preya's. Her will through me. I strike.)…_

"The Enkindled Drell are taught to bear this burden as the will of another," he said, brushing aside the unwanted memory.

…_(Preya is red with disappointment at my guilty tears. She does not – cannot – yell, but angry flashes speak volumes. The human was hers, she says. How dare I believe his killing was mine? How dare I regret what she wills?)…_

"But to the pagan elders," he said, "they were a gift." He stared at the batarian. "They believed that a young warrior should embrace his memories. He should live his enemies' deaths a thousand fold, he should seek to understand each detail of his enemy's life. He should see the goodness his enemy held, the love of his family, the dreams he once had. He must know his enemy to his utmost, he must understand what his enemy's death robbed from the universe. Only then could he truly appreciate what he'd done. Only then could he truly know it was justified."

The batarian was silent as Thane's gaze returned to him. "Irikah was of the pagan ways," he said. "Irikah taught me this. And I have come to believe it. You ask me what I want. I want you to know her as I did, know what a grave hole her death leaves in the galaxy. You have killed her, you must now know why."

He paused, his face finally betraying a flicker of emotion.

"And _I_ will know _you_. And then you will die."

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

Thane remembered his lessons. Every teacher, every lecture. Perfectly. He remembered Illuminated Preya, the hanar to whom he had belonged, and her week long ruminations on philosophical minutiae from every corner of hanar and prothean and drell intellectual history, the way her singing voice and the rhythmic flashing of her body had spelled out thoughts beautiful in Thane's eyes and mind alike. He remembered master Ontaje, Preya's oldest and most favored student and her primacy's master at arms. Ontaje had lived a hard life and come to the Compact fully grown, and even as a boy Thane had seen how his own skills eclipsed his teacher's, and yet never had a being been so disciplined, so utterly and nonnegotiably attuned to what was right and proper and _perfect _as the grey-skinned drell. Thane owed him tremendously.

There had been others. Specialists shipped in by Preya at considerable expense. Masters in every form of combat – drell and otherwise. Biotics and weapons-masters, linguists and xenobiologists, philosophers and monks, engineers and survivalists. Years and years of education, every esoteric scrap of knowledge a young assassin might need on his first trip offworld. Thane's eager mind had drank in the knowledge without pause, and he had never forgotten a word.

But that did not mean it did not take practice.

Thane stood in the life support systems room, arms at the ready, balanced lightly atop one foot, as he had been for the past several hours. His muscles burned in agony, his knee threatened to collapse, his entire body demanded that he release the tension, but he refused.

For a drell, learning was not about memorization. It was about _flawless_ execution. It was about self-control. It was about becoming so intimate with the lifetime's worth of memories in his head that he could instantly call on any of it with no warning.

"Ontaje's eyes narrow in contempt," he said to the room, empty except for the hum of carbon scrubbers. In the past decade he'd learned to keep his solipsisms non-verbal, but in solitude it felt good to speak them as Preya had taught. "My smile fades. I have erred. He holds out a salt-frosted hand, wordless as I fetch the thrown bolas. 'but Master,' I say, 'I was swift. I dodged them all.' He shakes his head. 'Anyone can make a bad decision quickly. Do it again.'"

Remembered enemies flitted through Thane's head, joining him in the silent room. In his mind, his limbs flew out in all directions, but his body remained still.

"The turian's weapon crackles, green plumage splitting the night. His remaining mandible twitches as the trigger is pulled," he said, using his words to enkindle his memories, as Preya had taught him. Thane did not need to close his eyes to see the remembered turian (twenty years dead, in fact) before him in perfect clarity, and he did not need to move to act out the next part. "Light blossoms at my feet but I am gone. Shadows in plain sight. Islands of darkness pool between the blasts, blinding him to my approach. I am beside him. My hands find his skull." His arms remembered the feel of the turian's neck breaking, the exact resistance to his twist, the sudden, slacked weight of the armored alien in his grip.

Thane moved on, even as he felt the heat rising in his exhausted limbs. He conjured up scenario after scenario. Every species, every weapon. Different numbers, different situations. He was in Tayseri Ward when three krogan and a human ambushed him (_fingers sprawled on the krogan's crest, feet lashing in every direction. Onlookers watch in earnest). _He was stowed away aboard a batarian gunship (_instruments shatter under the copilot's face. My elbow catches the astonished pilot). _He felt himself walk through each response. Every narrow escape, every grisly, come-from-behind massacre. He'd broken so many necks in his lifetime and yet each one stood out.

The hours trickled by, and Thane trained, never moving an inch. He had to. A week now he'd been with Shepard, and already the human had led him into three separate mercenary headquarters. Already he'd gallivanted with krogan and turians, murderers and thieves, soldiers and mercenaries, heroes and hellions. Even his considerable experience felt inadequate at times. He had to train harder. Had to fulfill his promise.

More remembered foes died. Dozens. Hundreds. Only the life support machines bore witness. The temperature climbed.

Thane's limbs demanded release from his leash. His leg had long since fallen asleep. His mind, even, protested the tedium, but nothing would avail them. Thane was in control. Not his body.

Or so he thought.

He was moving from one solipsism to another when he felt a sudden brick to the back of his head, a pain so extreme it challenged his focus. He swayed in place, just a moment, before reasserting control. He frowned and willed his training to continue.

But it was too late. He'd become distracted and the real world began to crystallize into his senses. Pain radiated from a thousand spots. A sound, desperate and low, had filled the room. Thane blinked rapidly (for the first time in many minutes) as the memories fell away and he realized the source of the sound was himself. He was wheezing.

His throat was in agony.

He set down his foot and grasped at his ribbed neck, feeling it ripple and spasm under his grip. He set his mind to regaining focus, channeled all of his efforts into slowing his breath as he was accustomed to doing when not in combat, but it was no use. The pain had nucleated and now it was spreading. His breathing became more rapid, more urgent, and he found himself swaying on his feet. It was so hot. Why was it so hot? His throat gave a strained clicking sound with each bursting inhalation. The basso sound reverberated in his skull.

It was the sound of a dying drell.

Thane remembered the sound well. It happened to all drell eventually. He'd been a little over twenty when Ontaje had succumbed.

Thane stumbled to the bench, willing his body back into balance. His heart and lungs raced desperately, but he was calm, gently feeling his throat for any major damage. His skin was hot to the touch – practically burning – and Thane gave an accusing glance at the humming machines all around him. He had allowed his memories to overtake him again and had forgotten he was sitting in a room full of autoclaves and sterilizers and scrubbers and all manner of heat-generating equipment. Shepard had happily given him the hottest, driest room on the ship, a veritable basking rock, but there was a limit to how much Thane could take. He cursed his lack of attention. Temperature control was a constant issue for a reptile in space. Letting yourself overheat was an amateur mistake, and Thane was no amateur.

His lungs continued to thunder.

He needed to cool down. Back on Kahje he'd have just taken a quick dive in the ocean, or at least retreated to the shade, but here on the Normandy there was neither. Just chattering machines and warm bulkheads, an island of heat floating in the vast, cold expanse of space. He had to leave the room.

Thane hesitated, looking at the door. It was late at night, but even so, he could hear voices in the mess hall through it. Shepard and Massani. He would prefer not to disturb them. He considered simply enduring the discomfort for a moment, but the taste of blood on his tongue changed his mind.

He stood, his throat still thrumming unbidden.

–

Thane's footsteps were silent as he strode from the life support room and felt the cooler air of the mess hall overtake him. Around him the ship was quiet and dark, most of the crew having retired to sleep while a skeleton crew and the Normandy's batteries of advanced computers kept watch. The soft hum of the engines shook Thane down to his bones.

Thane allowed his feet to carry him to the dimly-lit mess, unoccupied, at the moment, except for Shepard and Zaeed, who'd taken up residence at the end of one table, bowls of food before them.

"So there we were," Zaeed was saying, his gnarled hands gesturing overtop his forgotten midnight meal. "Me and my last few mates and a goddamn field of bodies. Fifteen minutes we'd been gone, Shepard. _Fifteen minutes_, and they'd all gotten themselves killed. You believe that?"

"Mmmhmmm…" Shepard grunted noncommittally, staring into the depths of his food. He didn't look particularly interested in Zaeed's story, but all the same Thane did not interrupt them, choosing instead to lurk to one side, hands folded behind his ramrod back.

"I swear, only one of us thought that was a good stroke," Zaeed continued, "an' that was Stefan's bloody _cat_. Lookin' at it you'd think it was Christmastime. All that meat, I suppose."

At some unbidden signal, Shepard looked up, blue eyes alighting on Thane's shadowy form in an instant. "Thane?" he asked, as if unsure.

"I am here," Thane said, taking a step forward. He was secretly impressed with the commander's acuity. It was a rare human who could see Thane before it was much, much too late. Shepard would have been only _slightly_ too late. With some difficulty, Thane pushed the thoughts of how best he would eliminate the Commander aside – dark thoughts were an occupational hazard for an assassin, and one he did not make a habit of dwelling on more than necessary.

"I was wondering if you'd ever leave that room," Shepard said, cocking an inviting smile. "Bad dreams?"

"Drell do not dream," Thane said automatically. He was about to explain himself when Zaeed pushed himself up from the table and rounded on him, a thoroughly unamused frown slashed into his scarred face.

"It's about goddamn time," he said, striding up and planting himself right in front of Thane. "Thane bloody Krios. Best goddamn assassin in the galaxy, ask the right people. You got a lot of goddamn nerve showing up _here_." He dug into Thane's gaze with his two-toned granite stare.

Thane raised one brow, unsure what to say. "I needed a moment to cool down," he explained, meeting the mercenary's gaze. He had almost a head of height on the man, but he knew dangerous people when he saw them. There were certain people in this galaxy that you did not shoot at except from very, very far away. Granted, most of them were krogan, but every once in a while Thane met an exception. Zaeed was old but heavy with muscle and heavier with experience – Thane could see it in his eyes. Even a drell assassin was not fearless.

"I thought I told you never to show your face around here again," Zaeed growled.

That _did _give Thane pause. He rifled through his memories in an instant. He'd heard of Massani by reputation, but that was it. "I believe you are mistaken," he ventured. "We have never met."

All of Zaeed's tension bled out in an instant. "Huh," he said, shrugging. "Musta been a different Thane bloody Krios then."

Thane did not know what to say. He eyed the mercenary warily. "I see…" he said.

Zaeed broke into a smile and slapped him bracingly on the back, nearly knocking him over. "I'm just screwin' with ya, Krios," he said, letting out a bark of laughter. "Welcome to the team, you ugly goddamn lizard." The mercenary was still chuckling to himself as he walked away, leaving a very confused drell in his wake.

"…I see," Thane repeated, to no one in particular.

"Ignore him, Thane," Shepard said. "He's just being a jackass. Here," he said, pointing to Zaeed's empty seat across from him. "Sit."

Thane hesitated, probing his throat with one hand. It had fallen silent. "I believe I can return to my quarters now," he said, delivering a curt bow. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

"You didn't disturb me," Shepard insisted. "Sit."

After a moment, Thane nodded. "Very well." He slid aside Zaeed's unfinished meal – some human dish he did not recognize – and folded his hands. Across the table, Shepard eyed him with a curiou slook.

Silence filled the room. For his part, Thane spent it quietly scanning the Normandy with his sharp eyes, memorizing every detail. It was a ritual more than anything else – he'd already memorized it perfectly of course – but it was a comforting ritual. Another assassin's habit which was hard to break.

"Why don't you ever eat with the rest of us?" Shepard asked eventually, when Thane had allowed several minutes to pass without attempting to start a conversation. Thane's eyes flickered back onto him.

"I did not wish to presume," Thane answered. "I have entered your service. That does not mean I am welcome at your table."

Shepard put down his spoon. "You didn't think you were welcome?"

"I did not wish to presume. You have given me quarters, but said nothing of food or companionship. It is not my practice to steal from those who employ me."

Shepard's face took on a cross between pity and disbelief. "You haven't eaten _anything_ since you joined us? A whole week?"

"I did not wish to presume," Thane repeated again. At Shepard's exasperated look, he added, "it was little bother. Drell do not require much sustenance."

Shepard stared at him. "Thane," he said, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. "You have my permission to presume. I hired you, so I'm responsible for you. You can eat my food, you can go anywhere on the ship you want, you can talk to my crew. Jesus, Thane." He rubbed his forehead in annoyance.

"Very well," Thane said, but did not rise.

"What do you eat?" Shepard asked. "Want some cereal?" He pushed his bowl towards Thane. Little brown pieces floated in a pool of opaque white liquid. "Gardner says it's popular with colony kids these days. Told me I'd wasted my childhood not eating it." He shrugged. "It's not bad."

Thane regarded the offered bowl. "Processed grain briquettes in the secretions of a mammal," he said. "…disquieting. I must decline."

Shepard grinned, despite himself, and stared at the cereal with a new distaste. "Alright, no cereal. Then what _do_ drell eat?"

A sliver of hope quashed Thane's inclination to wave off Shepard's offer. He decided to risk it. "You mentioned your ship has a garden?"

"Sergeant Gard_ner_. He's a man. Not a garden," Shepard corrected.

"I see," Thane said, giving no voice to his disappointment. "Perhaps then some water only, please."

Shepard rose to his feet. "I'll get you some." He headed for the cabinets behind them, rummaging around for a proper glass. "So… you like gardens, then? Fruits and veggies, that sort of thing?"

"Yes," Thane said quietly. "That sort of thing. On Kahje drell eat primarily shellfish, as greenery is in short supply. But we flourish best on a diet of fruit." He paused for a moment. "And insects."

"Unless Gardner's been getting desperate I don't think we got any insects, but I'm pretty sure we've got _something_ like fruit in here," Shepard said, halfway buried inside of another pantry. "Mordin sure gripes about proper nutrition enough." It took a moment of rummaging, but Shepard eventually returned with the promised glass of water, along with a little bowl of lyophilized grapes and a pair of shrunken Mannovaian plums. "It's not much," he admitted as he set them down in front of Thane, but the drell nodded his head graciously all the same.

He drank the water first (this was a habit he shared with all drell, not simply assassins), pouring it down with no attempt to savor it. The ridges in his burning throat rippled, making little staccato tapping noises as bacteria-gummed cartilage popped in place. The tilt of one of Shepard's eyebrows proved that he'd noticed it, but Thane paid it no mind. He drank every drop before moving onto the fruits, eating each morsel one by one. The plums he peeled with meticulous care not to lose a drop of juice. In minutes it was gone – low metabolism or not, he hadn't realized how hungry he'd been.

Shepard sat in silence as Thane ate, his eyes never leaving the drell's ruddy throat. Thane let him stare, finishing off the fruit and finally re-clasping his hands, readying himself for the inevitable questions about his illness.

"You don't pray when you eat," Shepard observed instead. Thane did not show his surprise.

"Not always," he said, smiling. He gestured to the remains of his meal. "Were I to happen on this meal unexpectedly, were I to find it where it might not otherwise have been, I would have given thanks to Shels-aha, Goddess of Bounty. But this food was not a gift from her." He stared at Shepard. "It was a gift from _you_. My people believe in giving credit or blame only where it is due."

Shepard scratched his chin. "Huh. So how does that fit with the drell stuff about nothing being your fault?"

Thane frowned. This again. It was always such a chore trying to explain the Enkindled drell moral system to other species. Not least because he wasn't sure he fully grasped it himself. He searched for words.

Shepard seemed to take his hesitance for offense. "Sorry," he muttered. "Not trying to put you on the spot."

"No, it is forgiven," Thane said. "If the universe's faiths were easy to explain they would not require faith at all." He paused again, thinking. "Both the enkindled and the pagan drell believe in owning one's actions," he began, "they simply disagree on which those are. It is true there is an element of… convenience in the Enkindled perspective. I have killed many, many times with no blot on my conscience, while another might regret every one. But you must believe me that it is only an excuse when the believer uses it as one." He stared seriously at Shepard. "I have killed thirty-one sentients of my own volition," he said, voice quiet. "And I relive that shame every second of every day. I do not excuse myself from my actions."

Shepard nodded. "I can see that, but what if the person handing out the orders is evil?"

"Then _they_ are evil."

Shepard shook his head. "I'm sorry, Thane. That's just not good enough for me. Or practically any human, really." He paused for a moment. "Some… two hundred years ago was one of the worst black marks on my species' history," he said, eyes still staring at the ceiling like he was struggling to remember. "Long story short, one people tried to wipe out another. When the rest of us found out they said they were just following orders. I think we decided as a race, then and there, that that didn't cut it. You can't just blindly obey an evil order." He grimaced, and Thane could tell that he had more than just drell assassins on his mind. It wasn't hard to guess whose orders Shepard might struggle with – what with their logos everywhere, and all.

Thane nodded. "I would not suggest you can. You do not pledge your services to madmen and murderers, people who will use you for ill. But when your master, one of the Illuminated, she who enkindled you with all that you know, tells you that a man is evil and must die, it is her decision. Not yours."

Shepard sighed. "I guess so. Too bad I don't have a magical wise jellyfish to tell me what to do."

"I am pledged to your service, Shepard," Thane said after a moment. "I will do as you bid. If I am to follow an unjust order on your mission, it will be yours." He paused. "If you will pardon my saying so."

Shepard waved off his comment, busying himself pivoting his spoon around on the tabletop. "Great. So we're screwed then, is what you're saying?"

Thane's brows rose in confusion. "I did not mean to imply-"

"No, no, I understand. Sorry. Bad joke."

Thane was silent. "You… doubt your own orders." It was not a question.

"All the time, Thane," Shepard said, smiling sheepishly. "All the time."

"…I see. Then you wish me to act at my own discretion." Shepard nodded. Thane 'hrm'ed, thinking. "You are an usual employer."

"I'm not who the galaxy thinks I am," Shepard said, leaning forward in a chair. "I would love to send you all home to live your lives and take on all the Reapers single-handedly because I'm apparently some kind of problem-solving God, but I just can't do it alone. I like to think we're all on a _team_, Thane, trying to stop something we all want to see stopped. If that means me stepping aside and letting Garrus and Miranda come up with most of the plans, then so be it. If that means I have to tell my team to use their best judgment, so be it." He stared at Thane.

Thane was silent.

"I can't do this alone, Thane," Shepard repeated, face haunted. "I might screw it up. Cerberus has me… Cerberus has me all messed up. Doubting myself. Hating them more than is even remotely reasonable. Am I going to be able to work alongside them? Am I going to be able to fight the collectors when I'm worried about my own ship turning on me? If I have to face a choice like that… I'm not sure I trust myself to make the right one." He paused, letting the silence sweep in like a tide again. "I _want_ you to question my orders," he said at last.

Thane said nothing for a long moment, considering this. He supposed he was a free being, in a manner of speaking. Preya had released him from his pledge more than fifteen years before, freeing him into the universe to be his own drell. Still, he knew well how he'd shied away from that freedom ever since, contracting himself out to this bidder or that. Following orders. Now he was here to follow Shepard's orders and Shepard had none to give.

The two were silent for many minutes, their thoughts expanding to fill the darkness.

"I will ponder this," Thane aid at last, rising from his chair. His skin had cooled, his throat had quieted, and he longed to return to solitude to think. Shepard let him go without comment.

Even so, Thane paused in the doorway as a niggling thought occurred. "Shepard?"

The commander looked up.

"The story you told me, about the human genocide. Were the aggressors stopped in time?"

Shepard paused for a moment. "No. No, not in time."

"…disquieting."

* * *

_16 years previously…_

–

Thane set down the communicator where someone else might have thrown it across the room. Preya's tones still whistled in his ears. Of the anger he felt, he gave no sign, no trembling fists or muttered curses. Thane was a soul in utter control of his body.

Sasle, on the other hand, was not. "Well?" the old drell demanded, limping up behind Thane, his feet making scrunching sounds in Rakhana's soft, cool sand. "What did she say? You gonna find the _skedda _who did this and tear out his throat?" He gestured furiously at the wreckage around them, his long limbs casting longer shadows by the desert sun angling through the shattered doorway.

Thane turned slowly to face the temple's elderly guardian. It had been over eight hundred years since the bulk of the drell had fled to Kahje, and of the many left behind, Thane knew there were no survivors. Still, looking at Sasle, from the way his papery flesh hung off his skeleton to the milky pearlescent color of poorly shed scales that peppered his frills, it was hard not to believe that he'd been here – sole guardian of the Temple of Arashu – as long as the drell had been a people. Sasle was over ninety years old – almost twice the age Thane could hope to reach – and feebleness aside nonetheless healthy and tough, not even a rattle of Kepral's in his hoary old voice. Living on the abandoned desert world had kept him safe.

Of course, being the sole steward of an ancient temple when a human smuggling crew decided to relieve said temple of its relics and sell them on the galactic art trade had not. Sasle sported an ugly white bandage across his skull, stained with black crust from where he'd been dispatched with the butt of a rifle.

Thane placed a hand on the furious older drell's shoulders. "Illuminated Preya forbids me to act," he said, concealing his own anger behind professionalism. "She does not wish me to pursue the thieves."

Sasle's black and orange lip quivered. "Ara! Why not? You are a spar-_shela_!" he shouted.

"An assassin – a spar-shela – does not kill lightly," Thane reminded him, stepping past Sasle to stare at where one of the great statues – one of Arashu herself, more than twenty feet tall – had been cut from its base with rock saws. Chips of fine ivory and polished marble littered the floor, except for two great tracks from the cart the smugglers had used to wheel the valuables away.

"Eleven hundred years this temple has stood," Sasle moaned. "Myself here for seventy of them. Prayed to that statue every day. Gave my _life_ to protect it. And now it is gone, and you won't even kill those who are responsible!" He hobbled over to the base of the statue and stared desperately up to where, no doubt, its eyes had once rested.

_Everything _was gone. Every scrap of precious stone, every carving, every altar and prayer stone – valuables left alone by the millions of dying drell scavengers either because they were too sacred to touch or because they were worthless in a world without food – had left in the hands of offworlders. Thane did not count himself among the pagans who worshipped these gods, but still the offense of it made his mind smolder. This was his history, whether his religion or not.

"I share your pain," Thane said, his mind fixed on the strangled cry Irikah had made on seeing the shattered remains of her temple. Obviously this was not how she'd anticipated Thane's first trip to his ancestors' homeworld going either. She'd run off into the desert and Thane had not followed. Not yet. Better that she mourn her stolen gods alone.

"Surely," Sasle said angrily. "It is just the damn jellyfish holding your leash that do not, ara?"

Thane turned to stare at him.

The old drell seemed to shrink a little. "My pardons, master Krios," he murmured, eyes averted.

Thane turned back to stare out the door. He had been looking forward to seeing the temple doors – Irikah had told him they were carved such that they sang when the winds came out of the canyons to the south – but the smugglers had destroyed them too, knocking them out until they were wide enough to pass an enormous statue. "Believe me, Sasle, I share your pain," he repeated. "If not for myself, for Irikah."

Sasle followed his gaze. "She has the right of it, ara," he groused, eyelids sliding over milky eyes. "Sees what's coming. Nothing's sacred anymore. The temples, the priests, the spar-_shela, _all of it is dying. If it isn't thieves it's jellyfish, if it isn't jellyfish it's sandstorms, if it isn't sandstorms it's just _skedda _old age." He spat, disgusted, as he turned to Thane and tugged on one of his sleeves. "I'm not going to last forever out here!" he warned, prodding Thane urgently. "I'm not a priest but they'll still need somebody to replace me! Who's it going to be? You?"

Thane watched the older drell's animated ire without expression. "I suppose not," he admitted. Irikah had told him much the same. Her religion – the _drell_ religion – was on its last legs. Bit by bit the hanar and the Enkindled drell like himself were pushing the old believers aside, steadily stamping out all that remained of what was uniquely drell. Thane had known this for years, heard the call for temples to be built on Kahje's islands, heard the hanars' vitriolic refusals, but he had never had reason to care until he'd met Irikah.

"Perhaps Irikah will," he said, and strode out the door, leaving Sasle to his angry despair.

The path to the temple was narrow but well worn by the feet of the millions of pilgrims who'd tread it over the centuries. It wound its way down the mesa into which the temple had been carved, descending into a tangle of canyons and, beyond that, endless miles of arid flatlands.

A slight breeze carried the smell of salt to Thane's nose. It smelled like home – like Kahje. That thought rankled at Thane's mind. Some part of him wanted to call _this_ planet home. It was ruined, its population rock bottom for most of the last eight hundred years. From the path Thane could see the roofs of cramped tenement buildings, half-buried in salt and sand, dotting the flats, the last visible evidence of the billions who'd hunted and farmed and polluted Rakhana into extinction. Still, Irikah loved it. This was Irikah's home. And Thane wanted to share that with her, wanted to love it as she did.

The wind blew harder, and Thane's scales flattened against his flesh, trapping his fleeting heat for the night. He hastened, his thoughts darkening as he let his feet carry him along the trail. Preya's refusal ate at him. Despite her reservations she had allowed him to join Irikah on her yearly visit to the homeworld – had said it would be educational, if nothing else – but now she would not grant him leave to bring justice to thieves and vandals who'd ruined it?

Just thinking of the men who'd caused Irikah so much pain brought an uncommon fury to Thane's mind. Thane had been trained to keep such concerns away from his mind, but he hungered for vengeance. And why not? He was an assassin, honed for years into a deadly weapon. Why should he not wish to use his skills to make Irikah's foes pay? He had the skills, the resources. The smugglers had not expected to encounter any resistance on an abandoned world like Rakhana and they'd been sloppy. Thane could track them offworld in his sleep. A few calls to his contacts and he'd have them. Then it would just be a matter of a few sudden twists, or perhaps a sniper round, or a kick to the neck, or a…

No. _No._

He dealt death, but he did not wish death, not on anyone. He was _Preya's_ death dealer, not his own. Thane felt overcome with shame at his angry thoughts. This was what Irikah hated in him. This was what gave her eyes that flicker of hesitance whenever they set on him. What had she called it?

_Battlesleep._

Yes, this was battlesleep. Unworthy of Thane. Unworthy of Irikah.

He stopped and turned to stare up at the temple up above him, now framed against an oranging dusk sky.

Unworthy even, perhaps, of Arashu. The Goddess of Motherhood and Protection, Irikah had said. Thane disrespected her with his anger.

He closed his eyes. "Forgive me, Arashu."

He continued down the path.

Irikah was not hard to find. He found her at the mouth of one of the canyons, perched serenely on one edge amongst a swatch of tiny, waxy purple weeds, staring out at the setting sun. The perfect blue scales of her scalp were bared to the sunset, the woven hat she'd worn that morning resting on her lap. She hadn't heard him approach (no one ever did) and breathed deeply, clearly lost in memory. Thane watched her for many seconds.

His perfect Irikah. Five months, now, since she'd stepped in front of his sights …_(sunset-colored eyes, defiant in the scope.)... _Five months since he'd tossed himself at her feet, begged her mercy like the battle angel – the siha – that she was. Five months of quiet discussions of philosophy, five months of listening to her perfect voice explain the ancient pagan ways. Five months where every job for Preya was torture, made only bearable by memories of Irikah.

They'd grown closer, and Thane prayed they would grow closer still.

He smiled as he took a seat next to her. It was only with great effort that he moved his gaze to the horizon.

"It is beautiful," he said quietly. Indeed it was. Orange and purple and streaks of yellow.

Irikah jumped in place, sunset eyes shooting open. She smiled when she saw him. "Don't do that!" she shrieked, playfully batting Thane's arm.

"My apologies," Thane said, trying not to laugh at her. "I did not mean to interrupt a good memory." Irikah quieted, and the stains of recent, salty tears on her cheeks seemed to jump out at Thane. Even though she did not make a habit of narrating her memories as most hanar-trained drell did, it was not hard to guess where she'd been before he'd interrupted her. "Recalling the temple when it stood?" he asked quietly.

"It was so beautiful, Thane," she mewled, leaning against him. "I wish you could have seen it before…"

Thane tried to ignore the wash of feeling that threatened to overtake him at her touch. He carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her as close as he dared. "I wish that too," he said. He could not help but think again of disobeying Preya, of hunting down the thieves against her orders. "If there was some way I could return it, I would."

Irikah did not miss the veiled meaning in his words, and drew away in an instant. Her eyes traced suspiciously across him in a way that hurt Thane more than he wanted to admit. "By killing them?" she asked, voice quiet.

Thane closed his eyes. He would not lie. Not to her. "Yes."

"It is just a statue," Irikah said, looking away. "It isn't worth _that._ There are other ways to solve problems, Thane."

"Not for me, _siha_," Thane said. "Beyond killing, my skills are meager. I would craft you a new statue if I had the hands for it. But I do not. Killing is all I can do."

Irikah did not look at him. "If that's true, then I pity you," she said. Thane's heart descended into his stomach. He stared down at his lap, defeated. For a long moment they sat in silence as the sun dipped beneath the desert horizon and darkness claimed the land. Neither of them moved.

"Am I an evil creature, Irikah?" Thane finally asked.

There was silence, but Thane did not risk looking up to see her. He closed his eyes.

Her hands met his cheek and he felt relief wash over him as her gentle touch brought his eyes to hers. Looking at her, he always felt she could see right through him, to something behind. Or inside. "Thane, no," she said, staring deeply enough that Thane believed her. "You are asleep."

"How do I wake?"

"Keep trying," she said quietly, clutching his head to her chest. "Pray."

"The hanar do not pray," Thane reminded her, listening to the thud of her heart, the robust strumming of her throat as she breathed the desert air.

"The drell do," she said. "Try it. You will like it more than you know."

–

They sat like that for hours, listening to one another's hearts beat, and it was pitch-black before either of them moved. The stars had come out in force, casting a weak glow on the landscape that seemed to swallow up the desolation. At night Rakhana was not dead. At night it was still home. The weeds the two had been sitting on seemed to realize this and tiny black-violet flowers bloomed, releasing a pungent, fruity smell into the evening.

"Siha," Thane said, plucking one of the blooms from its stem and holding its silhouette up to the sky, "I may not have been entirely truthful with you."

"Oh?" Irikah asked, eyes somehow still bright and mischievous, even in the dark.

"I neglected to mention, I possess one other skill aside from killing," Thane boasted, turning the flower between two fingers. "I am told I make delicious tea. There is hardly a leaf or bloom I have seen that I could not make a nectar." He grinned at Irikah, holding the flower up to show her.

She smiled back radiantly. "I would be delighted," she said.

But when Thane reached for the tiny heatplate he used to cook in the field, she laughed.

"Except that they're poisonous."

Thane sighed, defeated.

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

The world was alight with biotic fire.

Thane had been a biotic since before he was born. His mother, still carrying him, had been chosen for the honor. The drell had no biotic culture of their own, having never discovered element zero, but the hanar were masters.

And if Thane was to be an assassin, he would need the proper tools.

The krogan bowed to their biotics, the humans ostracized theirs, but the drell had them made to order. The fact that Thane was a biotic didn't mean a thing – many Compacted drell were. It only made sense that the young drell with the fastest reflexes, the sharpest eyesight, the swiftest feet would be chosen for training. Biotics were just another part of the package. They didn't define him.

Biotics defined Jack.

Thane crouched behind the speck of cover he now shared with Lieutenant Taylor in one of the Eclipse Sisters' seemingly endless hangars-turned-staging camps, his focus holding on for dear life as the air rippled and buckled around him. Ahead, Jack was almost invisible under the twisting blue maelstrom that was her response to a warehouse full of biotic-enhancing drugs (or, really, just about anything, as far as Thane could tell). Her power was frightening to behold – multi-ton shipping crates upended and hurled themselves across the room like dry leaves, crashing towards the seven asari sisters Jack had chosen to assault on her own.

"One more, motherfuckers!" she howled, tearing another one of Pitne's tanks open. Brown-purple liquid bled across the floor, fumes roiling around Jack's booted feet. Thane could smell the sickly odor from here, so powerful it made his head spin and his amp prickle unnaturally, but Jack just laughed and lashed out again. Her biotic wave was ugly and unbalanced, drunken with the power of the Minagen X3, and yet so forceful one of the sisters was reduced to a purple smear against the ground. Jack laughed harder.

"Damnit, Jack, enough!" Jacob Taylor was shouting from Thane's elbow. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

Jack was in entirely too good a mood now to bite off the man's head as she'd been wont to do every time he said anything to her previously, but she still belted a string of curses his way for good measure. She extended her fingers as she darted towards the asari, dragging zero-g debris around her like a hurricane. The air fluttered hard enough to make Thane's timpani buzz.

Thane shook the muddiness from his head as Jack leapt into another widening slick of spilled X3. He fingered his communicator, his conscience precluding further silence. "The volus warned of fatal overdose, ma'am," he reminded her. "Perhaps you risk yourself unnecessarily."

Jack snorted, tossing another flurry of cargo that would have taken an hour to move by forklift. "Fuck off, Lizard," she shouted back. "I haven't felt this good in _years_. I am Rock. Fuckin'. Steady."

Thane did not reply (it would have been cut off by another stomach-jarring crash either way).

He peered over the edge of the crate he and Jacob were using to shield themselves from the flying debris, his dark eyes scanning the room. Soaking up details. His throat itched fiercely, threatening to close up on him if he moved, threatening to start bruzzing again like it had back on the ship, but Thane pushed the reflex away. He slowed his heartbeat as he'd been trained, conserving his energy for the right time to strike.

His mind traced out a plan.

Six opponents. Three biotics of some strength, all six heavily armed. Four in hardsuits. Asari-made weaponry. The one behind the loading crane was the best target – her shields had been flickering. Running low. Thane did a quick mental calculation. He could feint left, then move overtop. Four shots with the SMG would drop her shield (…_an ocean of blood pools at the alien's feet. One yellow eye opens in confusion, then closes forever…) _Take three steps, drop the SMG behind the console there, draw pistol with left hand. Fire twice into the asari's head to finish her off, dive behind the next palette. Roll. Draw second pistol. (…_the bullet enters just under the human's beard and passes through as if he were merely a ghost. Fire is everywhere…) _The second asari will have turned enough by then that her side will be exposed. Fire three times to overbalance, then dive and-

"She's going to get herself killed," Jacob growled, causing Thane's mental notes to evaporate in a flash. Thane suppressed a growl at the dark-skinned man, but said nothing. He did not enjoy sharing his cover. Or working with others at all, for that matter. It was not a talent he'd much cultivated in his life as an assassin, especially since Irikah's death. Occasionally some of his more nervous patrons would insist that he partner with their men – usually out of a misguided fear that he would turn coat at the last moment, as if he did not choose his jobs carefully, as if he could be bought. Usually he'd find some occasion to knock these supposed 'partners' unconscious until he'd managed to finish the job. But he could hardly do that with Jack, or with Lieutenant Taylor. They were his… allies. He had to adapt to them, accept the variables they threw into his calculations. Lieutenant Taylor was clearly a man of some talents – his obvious dislike for Thane notwithstanding – and Jack as destructive as a drunken Blood Pack squad. They complicated things more than he liked, but Shepard had asked him to accompany them on their search for Wasea, and so Thane would be civil.

Luckily, if Jacob sensed Thane's frustration he didn't show it, too preoccupied pushing a fresh heatsink into his overheated weapon. Thane nodded at him. "Perhaps. She is proving an admirable distraction, at least."

Jacob looked up, as if surprised to hear Thane's voice. When he met the drell's eyes, his own narrowed distrustfully. Jacob sneered at him. "You planning to fire a shot sometime in here?" he asked snidely, cocking his shotgun, which practically glowed red, "Or do you only shoot people in the back?" Thane's weapons – still in his holsters – were stone cold.

Thane frowned. "I will draw when I am ready to fire. Not before," he said.

A sudden rush of cool air cut off Jacob's response as another human materialized beside him. "That's the spirit, Thane," Kasumi said, flopping down to sit next to them. She downed a sip from one of Jacob's canteens and flashed them both a toothy smile. "I never fire if I can help it. Although…" she hefted a beautifully-crafted (and obviously stolen) new gun in the air, "with this bad boy I'm not sure I'll be able to resist."

"Asari-made Solsa pistol. Where did you get that?" Jacob asked.

Kasumi grinned cheekily, fiddling with the gun's sight in her hands. "Captain Wasea. Team Jacob wins the prize. And she's got a _lot _of nice crap."

Jacob frowned. "Does any of that crap include the shipping records we need?"

Kasumi just shrugged. "I didn't see any decent computer terminals yet. Mighta been distracted, though, what with Inky over there rearranging the décor at mach ten. That last crate nearly took off my head. Got to say, never been much for Feng Shui."

Thane blinked, his mind easily recalling the missing terminals. "I saw them. Three computers, across the room between the fourth and fifth loading bays."

Kasumi looked impressed. "Yeah? Any cover?"

"Any of the three could suffice," Thane said, "but the westernmost terminal is least exposed. It is obscured behind a palette of mech circuitboards, approximately five feet by five feet by four feet. Properly positioned, it should shield you from fire from five of the six mercenaries."

Kasumi grinned and slid her new toy into a hidden pocket. "Awesome. Thanks Thane." She stood and gave them a lazy salute. "See you, boys. I'd better go do some actual work before Jack gets bored."

"Small chance of that," Jacob muttered, hearing another explosion as Jack tore a fuel tank from its supports and tossed it into the far wall, laughing all the way. Burning shrapnel rained on all sides. "Be careful, Kasumi. If they see you, you'll be dead." Jacob sent Thane another suspicious look as if Thane himself might fire on the tiny thief.

"My suggested route is perilous," Thane agreed, ignoring him. "If you are detected you will be inside five of the six sisters' firing arcs."

Kasumi's voice sounded amused as she flickered away into nothingness. "No worries, they won't see me. You might be sneaky, Thane, but _I'm_ the master. I'm so stealthy I put the 'b' in 'subtlety'."

Thane and Jacob did not laugh.

"Don't you get it?" Kasumi's voice asked, a note of irritation creeping in now. Jacob shook his head.

Human humor. The answer came to Thane in an instant. "The human word 'subtlety' includes a character which by convention is not pronounced. A silent letter. You imply you placed the letter in the species' collective lexicon without detection." Drell were known for their humorlessness – their perfect minds didn't have the same need nor capacity for the abstract absurdities that so many other species found amusing – but they weren't uninformed.

There was a pause. "Right," Kasumi said. When Thane still did not laugh, she sighed, disappointed, and he felt an invisible hand pat his head. "Oh Thane," she said, "you are just hopeless."

–

Thane did not draw until he was ready to fire.

"Victory is mine," Kasumi reported, her communicator crackling over the sounds of combat. "Fugitive hitched out on the _AML Demeter_."

It was all the cue he needed.

Thane's heart beat once. Slowly, with focus, like everything he did. A blade, a sedative, pressed up against his chest. Through sheer force of will his heart slowed, his lungs slowed. His metabolism dwindled away to nothing. It was the only way to prolong things. His only way to keep living long enough to do something that _mattered_. He would never run and punch and kick like he used to again. It was too hard now, in the twilight months of his life.

But shooting? That he could do.

Thane drew his gun.

Time proceeded in slow motion as he stood in one fluid motion, his memorized map of the battlefield overlaying the scene before him without flaw. Five sisters left. Low shields. Jacob's heat sinks running low. Jack getting weaker, angrier. Kasumi would still be at the computers, visible or not. It was time to end it, before she stepped back into the line of fire.

His gun tracked past the first asari and his finger pulled. (…_Ontaje's blows down upon my grip. The gun spirals. "Pick it up."…_) His hand kept moving. Over the second asari. Her angry snarl and the muzzle flash of her shotgun glowed unmoving in Thane's mind. He pulled again. (_"How can a turian be my survivalist teacher? We're not on Palaven," I ask, my tongue escaping my sense. Rogus introduces me to my ignorance on Kahje. And on turians.) _He twisted, springboarding off of the crate to speed his pivot. A quick biotic field leveled his aim. Two shots for the third asari. (…_We walk on water, on the ocean's bounty. Floating grass so thick Irikah glides across the surface. Her weight barely ripples, even heavy with my son, even heavy with our newfound freedom...) _The fourth sister's reflexes had just kicked in by the time Thane's aim had found her, so Thane got a good look at her face as he fired. _(…Irikah would have me be a spar-shela, to look on my enemies' faces as I kill them, to gather their souls in mine. So they are not forgotten. But she is gone and I have room no more. The batarian commander spills his soul out onto the floor, drop by drop, until I am done...) _The fifth asari – Wasea – got three shots into the stomach. Not enough to kill, but enough to distract her from the wall of steel thundering towards her. _(…Orange patterns kaleidoscope out into space, flicker and die. I will not look back to see their bodies spill into the void. Their souls will stay out here. With mine...) _

Thane holstered his gun and started to pray.

His heart beat a second time.

Five asari corpses struck the ground.

Even Jack was silent for a moment.

"Holy _shit._"

–

Thane padded along behind the justicar, allowing his feet to take him where they willed. True to her word, the blue-skinned woman had agreed to spare the police station her impassionate wrath. Calls had been made. Shepard and Miranda's teams (or Team Bossy and Team Bubble-Butt, if you asked Kasumi) – currently shaking down other Eclipse bases looking for Wasea – were recalled, and the mission was over.

_The AML Demeter._

All of this for just three words. Thane withheld a sigh. He had killed so many, many mercenaries in his life. Hundreds. Thousands. He could count his memories if he cared to. It seemed so small to continue. Now he was aboard a suicide mission where he might help save _hundreds _of thousands of lives, and they sent him to kill more Eclipse. That the five he'd killed tonight thoroughly deserved their deaths, Thane had no doubt. But it was the same hollow victory as before. Chipping away at the small-time scum that made the universe a more dangerous place, while the collectors made off with entire colonies.

He longed for a better purpose. A _greater _purpose, a purpose worthy of his son. Not because he minded killing the Eclipse. Because his time was limited. The tingle in his throat never left him now, sitting there, reminding him of his numbered days. He was a marked drell. Oceanbound, the hanar would say. He only had a few months left before he'd be too weak to lift a gun, before he would return to the waters. Before he would rejoin Ontaje and his parents. Before he would rejoin Irikah.

He wanted nothing more, but he could not allow it. Not yet. To die before his chance to lend his skills against the collectors? It would be unbearable. It would not happen. He would not allow it. If it came to that, he would strike off on his own. Find a way to kill the collectors without Shepard. To do something.

But that was getting ahead of himself. For now he would have faith in Shepard. The commander had promised to meet them on the Normandy as soon as he could – Samara had been quite adamant that she swear her fealty sooner rather than later – and then they would be off this planet. To better things.

"Krios."

Thane turned to see Jacob fall into step behind him. The man smelled of mammal sweat and melted plastic from where his over-pushed weapon had melted the grips of his gauntlets.

Thane gave a curt bow and kept walking. "Lieutenant Taylor," he said.

Jacob looked around, anywhere but at Thane. "Jacob's fine," he mumbled. "You aren't part of our chain of command, don't need the title."

"And yet I believe it is just that that you despise so much in me," Thane said evenly.

Jacob's eyes darted to Samara's back. Kasumi had already disappeared, Jack was struggling with the two crates of Minagen X-3 she was trying to lug along, and the asari was clearly not interested in their squabbles. They were alone. Jacob's shoulders sank a centimeter and he returned his gaze to Thane. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so, Krios. I have a problem with you."

Thane arced a scaly brow at him, inviting him to continue.

Jacob sighed, clearly struggling with his words. "Listen, Krios," he started, "I don't like leaving this stuff unsaid. It's unprofessional to let grudges fester, and I know the commander doesn't need any more of that. It's frankly amazing that he let me lead a squad after what happened between me and the krogan. I don't mean to let him down again."

Thane nodded. "I can respect that. Tell me your grievances."

Jacob mouthed dumbly for a moment, as if he hadn't expected Thane would listen to him. "Well… We have loyalty problems on this ship, Krios. Lots of problems."

Thane nodded. Shepard's comments on Cerberus swam to the forefront of his mind.

"I think we can work them out in the end," Jacob continued, "because I believe in the commander and I believe in Cerberus."

"Then you differ on that point with the commander," Thane pointed out. "His opinions on his employers are not so optimistic as your opinion of yours. If you are forced to choose between them, whose man are you?"

"I won't have to choose," Jacob said instantly, but Thane saw the worry in his eyes. "Because me and the commander are both here for something bigger than Cerberus. We're here to save people. To save the galaxy. And no matter what happens we won't let that drop. But I know the commander. He doesn't know who to trust."

"At least he acknowledges that decisions must be made in that regard."

Jacob grimaced. "My point is, if you're not with us completely, if you're not one hundred percent with us, then get out now. I don't pretend I could kick you off if you didn't want to go, but I promise you this." He leaned close to Thane, dark eyes meeting dark eyes. "I _will_ end you if you betray us. So if you get any other offers you better delete them without reading."

Thane did not blanche. He could kill Jacob twelve times before the man hit the ground. A fact which was not supposed to give him any satisfaction, but it did. "I am an assassin," he admitted, "it is true. But perhaps your faith in Shepard falters if you are so quick to judge where he is not. I have offered my services to Shepard for free, because I too believe in the righteousness of his cause. My loyalties are not to be bought."

"You're an assassin."

"And you are a soldier. The hanar call soldiers and assassins both Arawar. To the drell they are spar-shela. No difference, in our eyes."

"Then get a dictionary. Soldiers fight for causes. Assassins fight for money."

Thane repressed the offense he felt at that claim. It was an explicit point of the Compact that the drell were not paid for their services. They were not employees, nor slaves. To accept money would be an offense to everyone involved. "_Amateur_ assassins fight for money," he corrected. "Lost souls who turn to base savagery because they have nothing else to sell. No other way through the darkness of the galaxy."

"You never take money for your jobs?"

Thane frowned. "I do. When I left the services of my master, I also left her hospitality. I must feed myself. I must feed my family." _All of it for Kolyat. I will help him in this way. It is the only way I can._

"Then you're a merc, as far as I'm concerned," Jacob said, folding his arms across his broad chest. "You and Zaeed are no different. You're _dangerous_."

"As are you, Jacob," Thane insisted. "As are all with the skill to deal death. We are burdened with a choice as to where our loyalties lie, and sometimes loyalty is both sides of the horizon. It is a blessing and a curse, a weapon and a burden. The assassin who kills the innocent is no less loyal than the soldier who kills the wicked." He stared at Jacob, who looked recalcitrant. "Consider this. May a soldier disobey orders?"

"Never."

"Nor may an assassin. It is a grave dishonor to betray those to whom one pledges oneself. But now tell me, does a soldier choose which missions to accept?"

"No," Jacob answered instantly. "I do what I'm asked."

"A loyal soldier believes in a ruler's causes, and so swears to do as he is bid so long as he is a soldier," Thane said, smiling thinly. "A loyal assassin researches each mark thoroughly before accepting each job. Which, then, is in a better position to exercise conscience over his decisions, the soldier or the assassin?"

"Please. As if you ever told your hanar handlers no."

Thane was momentarily at a loss for words. He had not expected Jacob to know of his past – the man looked for all the world ready to disregard Thane for his job title alone. Perhaps he had underestimated the human. He paused. "No," he admitted eventually, "No, no I did not."

"Assassin," Jacob concluded, practically spitting the word as he turned away, hastening to catch up with Samara.

"I will meditate on your words," Thane called out. "I hope you will meditate on mine."

Jacob said nothing.

Thane watched him go with a heavy heart. He was not surprised at all when he heard the tell-tale sign of Kasumi reappearing behind him.

"Wow," she said, casually taking a bite of an apple she'd apparently stolen from the Eclipse base. "Rough crowd, huh?"

Thane sighed. "I grow weary of explaining myself to humans," he said, frowning. "Lieutenant Taylor will not think about what I said. He has his own moral compass and mine will not touch it."

"Moral compasses are always sticky," Kasumi observed through a mouthful of apple, patting him on one leather-clad shoulder. "That's why I pawned mine a long time ago. But let me tell you something. Jacob will think about it."

Thane looked at her. "Will he?"

"He will. Haven't been here long but I know it. He'll think about it all day. Sit there and worry that you might be right and he might be as judgmental as everybody else. Shepard isn't the only guy on the Normandy who thinks too much." She counted on her gloved fingers, "Shepard, Jacob, Garrus, Mordin, Joker, Miranda, You? I swear, sometimes I wonder how we get anything done with all the _pondering_ going on. But I guess that's just me."

Thane pondered this.

–

By the time Thane had reached the Normandy, the tickling his throat had started to burn again, scorching at his nerves. He quieted the spasms as best he could and, as soon as Kasumi had left him to go harass the pilot, he quietly excused himself, choosing not to stay to watch Samara deliver her oath or the inevitable gaggle of excitement as every male on the ship fought to catch a glimpse of their newest squadmate. He slipped away, unseen as always.

Or so he thought. Shepard was standing at the entrance to Mordin's lab, talking with the salarian in hushed tones as Thane approached the elevator. They quieted as Thane pressed the call button.

"Everything go alright?" Shepard asked. "No more asthma attacks?"

"Shepard!" Mordin interrupted, aghast, "Asthma _human_ disease. Autoimmune in nature, inflammation of airways. Kepral's Syndrome _bacterial_ disease unique to drell. _Very_ different mechanisms."

"Either way, no further attacks," Thane interrupted with some effort, cutting the salarian's complaints off (much to Shepard's obvious relief). "Thank you for your… concern, but I will control my temperature better in the future. I will simply have to leave my quarters to cool p-periodically."

Shepard nodded as the elevator doors mercifully opened and Thane fled inside. Thane could see… something in the man's eyes. Pity, perhaps, or concern? It was hard to tell.

The doors closed, and Thane released his hold. He coughed forcefully, his throat expanding out so fast it hurt. The grinding sound was back. Thane fought to keep it down but it rose in ferocity until he doubled over in pain, hacking into one gloved hand.

"Mr. Krios, are you well?" EDI's voice joined him. "Do you need me to contact medical assistance?"

The coughing fit subsided and Thane stared blearily at the blood on his hand. "No," he said. "No thank you."

EDI paused longer than seemed normal for a computer. "…Very well, Mr. Krios. Logging you out."

As soon as the doors opened, Thane rushed for the life support station, cradling his bloodied glove against his stomach. His mind raced against his will, mercilessly recalling the day Ontaje had started coughing blood.

_Oceanbound…_

He was so distracted that he was halfway to his meditating table before he noticed that the entire room had changed. He stood up straight, astonished.

Every inch of the room had been covered in clean gray insulation panels, fitted to cover the life support machines. Thane could smell the newness of the material. He paused to touch the surface of one. Where the machine underneath could have burnt him, the panel was pleasantly cool to the touch. His guns had been neatly laid out in well-lit shelves in one corner, while the other corner was dominated by a towering heating and dehumidifying unit.

On the table rested a bowl stacked high with fresh fruit and a note scrawled on a piece of paper. Thane couldn't help but be struck by its archaicness. He read the note.

_Thane_, it said, _I knew you'd never ask so I had Gardner and the engineers whip this up for you. Should let you keep the room as hot or cold as you like. Tali got the fruit. Hope it's to your taste._

_PS: Don't think this is an excuse to never leave this room. I expect socializing from you, and not just the kind that happens at the end of a sniper rifle._

_-Shepard_

Thane smiled. His throat was quiet.

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Audio transcript of ****Zizi Tic's Celeb-Watch****, Episode #12037, originally aired March 8, 2185.**

_*opening theme*_

Zizi Tic: This is Zizi Tic's Celeb-Watch! I'm Zizi-Tic, the Celeb Shadow Broker, the Dalatress of Scandals, the Matriarch of Movie News, and your guide to the world of Novatown's biggest names!

This week's Big News is, of course, the death of powerful businesswoman and beloved asari heartthrob Nassana Dantius. Nassana was killed this morning in her office by what eyewitnesses describe as "At least ten drell." Nassana was already a successful trade mogul when she blazed into Novatown with a string of critically-acclaimed vocal performances. While police are describing her death as a result of business rivalries gone bad, this reporter wonders if there might be more to it.

_*A security camera still of Commander Shepard appears on screen*_

THIS man was seen exiting the Dantius towers not twenty minutes after Nassana's death. Facial recognition software has identified him as Commander John Shepard, a Spectre believed killed two years ago. But what is a dead man doing exiting the home of a dead woman? Where has Shepard been the last two years? The answer is as obvious as the frills on his chin. Serving as Nassana's love-slave.

Yes, that's right. You heard it here first. The legendary Commander Shepard killed Nassana after yours truly revealed Nassana's budding relationship with turian actress Urna Solaris last month. That's right! Solsanna versus Shepsanna! And nobody wins! Urna Solaris was unavailable for comment, as she's still busy filming _Blue Harvest _on location on Palaven, but we contacted expert doctor Trap'dah Hadah, who had this to say. Trap?

(Offscreen) Zizi Tic: "In your professional medical opinion, was Nassana's death inevitable once word of her relationship with Solaris was revealed?"

Dr. Hadah (on camera): "What? What does tha-" (footage cut) "-es, Nassana's behavior consistent with asari pregnancy. It is highly likely she was carrying an infant, though whether Solanis' or Shepard's is impossible to know."

Zizi Tic: You heard it here first, Zizi-fans! Of course, the story takes a darker twist when combined with the death of Information Broker Nyxeris two days earlier, known to be employee to – and possible secret lover of – one Liara T'soni, former lover of none other but _Commander Shepard. _Spectre Tela Vasir had this to say:

Tela Vasir (on camera): "Investigators have given me no reason to think the two crimes are related, but you can be sure we will be keeping a close eye on everyone involved. Now get out of my face, I have work t-"

Zizi Tic: Could this love rectangle be a love _pentagon? _Time will tell!

In other news, turian actor Balcus Alcwin, the eldest of the famous Alcwin brothers who have dominated Novatown box office profits for more than a decade, has been checked into rehab for "pulling orange". Uh oh! That's right, that nefarious Earth plant, the carrot, has claimed another turian addict! One of the most potent and addictive turian drugs known, carrots are typically rendered into a paste and spread on the inside of a turian's mandibles, where they result in a sustained high. Balcus' representative had this to say "Balcus is innocent. He was exposed to carrots entirely by accident – one of the servants tending his trailer accidentally delivered a vegetable dish intended for his human costar. Needless to say, he has cancelled his upcoming appearances and begs his fans to have faith in him. He'll be back as soon as you know it!" When pressed on reports that Balcus was spotted entering a human vegetable merchant's store, he had this to say "Balcus was researching his next role for a crime thriller in which he plays a renegade detective, abandoned on Earth when he discovers a deadly truth." Balcus is also signed to return as Saren for the as-of-yet-unnamed prequel to last summer's "Battle for the Citadel", for which he won a Nebulon Award. I, for one, wish Balcus a speedy recovery!

"Lady Lava", the crimson-skinned Drell diva we all love to love is being accused of lip-synching to previously-recorded tracks by noted elcor critic Drunun.

Drunun (on camera): "Confidently, Ms. Lava's claim that she can hit notes four times above the asari hearing spectrum is a pitiful plea for attention. Smugly, if Ms. Lava had done her research she would have pretended to sing a note outside the elcor spectrum as well. Hopeful that this will result in a book deal, apparently she believes her elcor fans too stupid to recognize the difference between true art and a volus-made sound vocorder."

Zizi Tic: Lava maintains that the notes are genuine, and involve no mechanical assistance.

Now it's time for Tic's Picks.

Being married this week are actress Depa Chadra to the Artist Formerly Known as S'r'rashiiiiik. The two are finally tying the proverbial knot in a small, private ceremony on the space station _Aerilla_, which they've rented out for the occasion. Shella Aipso made a splash with her new line of body wash which promises to, quote "Make your scales so shiny turians blink," and the season 2 premier of "So You Think You Can Kill a Krogan" opened with 147 million viewers, a record for the show, who tuned in to see last season's champion Bovar Krash spend 30 seconds in a burning engine contrail.

And the Dud of the Week is none other but the always-crazy Kebta Korlack, who made headlines last year when he drunkenly claimed the Salarian Union had never landed on the third moon of Uttuj IV. This week Kebta made a whole new set of enemies by claiming the Rachni war was a hoax as well! Hey Kebta, I've got an idea! How about you tell that to Krash? Once he stops smoking, anyway!

And that's it for Zizi Tic's Celeb-Watch. Stay tuned, Zizi-fans, as I'll be back later tonight with all the Celeb news fit to share!

_*outro*_

–

* * *

**A/N: **And I'm back once again, with another belated chapter.

So... Thane. Yeah, Thane's cool. He's one of the characters that I feel gets plenty of attention by the fanbase, much of it quite impressive. That said, the vast majority of these stories are structured as Thane/Shepard romances, and I felt like there were a few aspects to the character that were often ignored by the fanbase. (Foremost among them, Irikah. Who seems kinda important to me). In any case, I hope you like my interpretation of events.

So, for the nerdy ones out there, this chapter is loaded with a half dozen or so references.

Next chapter's plan has changed slightly. It turned out a lot bigger than I'd planned so I'm splitting it in two. So chapter 17 will only be about ONE of the most epic, super-cool characters ever ever ever. The other guy has to wait for chapter 18.

Also, this codex was so fun to write.

Read! Review! Enjoy! The Works!


	17. Chapter 17, Polymath, Mordin Solus

**Polymath – Mordin Solus**

* * *

–

Mordin held the mixture up to the light. "Translucent brown fluid. Texture qualitatively within expectations. Removing aliquot for spectrophotometric analysis." A few drops in a clean cuvette. Polish with non-abrasive pad. Insert into spectrophotometric unit. Set to wavelength scan.

He waited.

…

…

…

Check results. "Spectrophotometric wavelength scan results… abnormal. Unexpected peak at six hundred twelve nanometers. Add…" he calculated, "twelve milligrams methyl cyclopentenolone." Mordin's skill with a scale was prodigious and he weighed out the necessary powder in a single attempt. It went in the mixture and dissolved.

Mordin nodded, satisfied. "Administering final test of quality." Taking a fresh syringe, he drew another aliquot.

"What are you doing!"

Mordin's head swiveled in an instant. "Staff Sergeant Gardner!" He said, beaming. "Glad to see you!"

Gardner did _not _look glad, his arms crossed over his chest in a clear gesture of human impatience. "What are ya doin' in my galley?" he demanded, gesturing to the half dozen scientific instruments Mordin had set up on the counters. "I have to make dinner!"

"Thinking," Mordin said instantly, making for Gardner, syringe held aloft. "Also reorganized spice rack by lethal dose in humans. Should help in ingredient selection. Try this." He sprayed the syringe's contents in the man's open mouth.

Gardner stumbled and coughed, caught off guard.

"Well?" Mordin asked, smiling.

"What was _that?_"

"Variation on Mannovian choic-stew adjusted for maximum enjoyment by humans. My specialty." He beamed. "Good, yes?"

Gardner's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Christ, no!"

Mordin frowned. In an instant he'd cleared the distance between them and jabbed his optical scope in Gardner's ear. He stared myopically into the ear canal, clicking his tongue.

Gardner was still as a statue. "Can… uhh… can I help you?"

Mordin drew back from his optical scope long enough to adjust a dial before sticking it back into Gardner's ear. "No, Mr. Gardner, thank you."

Gardner's frown creased his skin under Mordin's magnified gaze. Mordin paid it no mind, focusing and refocusing down the man's ear canal. Timpanic elasticity apparently normal. No evidence of parasites. Commendable hygiene, really. "Then is there a reason ya set yourself up in my galley and jabbed your little toy into my head?" the man tried.

"Two reasons," Mordin quipped. "Reason one, need distraction. Logistical problem in lab. Need time to think. Nothing to worry about." Mordin made a habit out of breaking up his main research with other pursuits. It wasn't wise to spend every waking moment on a single question. Restricted thinking. Blinded researcher to possibilities. Tunnel vision. So when he was struck this morning by the urge to cook salarian soups, he did not deny himself. Better to work on multiple projects simultaneously, even less intellectual pursuits.

He clicked the scope into its infrared mode and gave another look. Still nothing. It appeared Gardner was quite free of ear parasites. Pity. Ahh well. Thus was the plight of the scientist. There were other hypotheses to test.

"Reason two," he said at last, "investigating source of your problem." He leaned back, clicking his tongue as he tapped a few notes into his omni-tool.

Gardner's frown disappeared under a look of worry. "What problem? Chakwas said I was fine."

Mordin clicked his tongue again. "Hate to impugn expertise, but Doctor Chakwas clearly incorrect in this instance," he replied. "Problem obvious. My choic-stew optimized for human enjoyment. Obviously pathology interfering with sense of taste. Must only find out why, now. New hypothesis involves brain damage due to parasites in ear canal."

Gardner's frown returned as a full-blown grimace. "Christ, Mordin!" he bellowed, swatting the salarian's hands away from his head. "Nearly gave me a heart attack 'cause I didn't love your nasty salarian bug juice!"

"Not bug juice!" Mordin said, affronted. "Solution derived from Mannovian tuberous root species. Similar compounds known to be delicacy for humans. Chemical makeup consistent with human biochemistry and your individual dietary habits!"

"I'm _fine_, Mordin," Gardner insisted, waving an irritated finger before Mordin's bulbous eyes. "I just _didn't like it._ I just. Didn't. Like. It."

Gardner muscled past Mordin to look dubiously at the bubbling mixture on the stove. His face was a deep grimace that suggested he wasn't sure how safe it was to dump down the drain, his shoulders clearly set on ignoring the salarian doctor until he went away.

Mordin pondered. Impossible. Impossible! Choic-stew irresistible! Had to be an explanation. "Fine," he said at last, folding his scope and sliding it into his coat pocket. "No brain parasites. Will pursue alternate explanations for medically-impossible lack of taste."

Gardner grimaced at his rearranged ingredient shelves.

"_Medically-impossible_," Mordin repeated, pivoting on one booted toe and marching away.

–

Mordin returned to the lab, mind back at work. His little escapade with Gardner had taken fourteen point four one eight minutes. A little faster than expected. Not quite enough time to come up with a solution to _his_ problem.

The laboratory lights flickered on as he stepped past the threshold, revealing the source of his distraction. One hundred forty seven thousand cell culture plates glittered from every surface. With EDI's help most could be relegated to microwell plates smaller than a thumbtack, but even stacked carefully in bays the stacks were reaching the ceiling. And that wasn't counting the many thousands of samples that had more specific growth conditions and had to be stored in incubators or chillers, gas hoods or pressure chambers, shakers or drip flow reactors or any of a dozen other instruments. Mordin had packed as densely as he could, but even after moving all of the lab's non-critical equipment to the hangar he was out of room. He could not plate out another dish unless he wanted to start throwing them away.

And he was less than half done.

"Unfortunate," he said to the empty room.

There was nothing to be done for it. He needed the space. Eight biological replicates for each type of cell he'd extracted from the collector corpses, on each of the hundreds and hundreds of conditions on which he'd try to grow them. A table's worth of plates for every growth condition, and there were many, _many _conditions to try. More hypothesis-driven approach would be better, but sometimes brute force exploration necessary.

Tens of thousands done, tens of thousands to go.

He did not have to ask the AI if any of the plates had grown yet. Needed time to incubate. A day, two days, a week. Hard to know how long. First one to culture Collector cells. Or try to culture, anyway. Slow going so far. Had to try. Key to understanding biology. Start small. Even failures useful. Even one hundred forty seven thousand failures. Every negative result, another piece to the puzzle.

"Response from Shepard yet?" he asked the empty room, still surveying the vast stacks of plates dominating his workspace.

The AI popped up from its console. "No, Dr. Solus. Shepard and Mr. Vakarian's away team have not yet released communications blackout. It is likely they will be unavailable until they return from the Citadel."

"Hmm…" Mordin said, tapping his chin. "Perhaps medical lab available until permanent accommodations can be arranged."

"Unlikely," EDI said. "The medical bay operates under a different decontamination protocol. It would require full processing before housing samples. Furthermore, Dr. Chakwas has officially requested that no further biohazardous samples be stored in her lab."

"Hmm…" More tapping. Helped the thinking process. "Contamination risk probably minor…"

"She fears a repeat of the ergoline incident."

Mordin narrowed his eyes and stared at EDI's expressionless face. "Isolated incident", he said, "Already apologized. Mister Hawthorne's hallucinations will stop when ergoline is fully metabolized in three to four weeks." He sighed. "Still. Dr. Chakwas may be correct. Impossible to predict risk."

Mordin's furious tapping was interrupted by a quick flash from his omni-tool. He froze, staring down at his wrist as orange panels bloomed to life and started to flicker. Tiny lights winked on and off, flashing by at blazing speed. One millisecond. Three milliseconds. One. Two. Four. One point one. Two.

In less than three seconds, the message concluded and the omni-tool quieted. It was an update from the STG, coded into flashes of light so fast that a non-salarian would take weeks to translate (and buried in enough false flashes that only someone possessing the unique wave-filter ocular flashbang and security unit implanted behind Mordin's left eye could hope to read it, even with computer assistance). Mordin's brain blazed through it, however, and in a moment he had it translated.

It was a routine update from Specialist Promect, one of his Family's STG representatives (every family clamored to get sons into the STG to get access to leaked intelligence no one else could provide). Promect was short and to the point, his report neatly annotated. Notices of fleet movements throughout the galaxy. Political readjustments on Sur'Kesh. New Dalatress from Asipi clan ascended by a margin of point two eight, two females from Gorot and Atini descended by one point one and point eight three. Progress reports on STG bio-technology projects.

Good messages. Mordin looked forward to them. Kept him abreast of new developments. No longer STG operative, but still respected salarian mind, kept informed. All standard procedure.

One line, however, was _not _standard.

"Are you well, Dr. Solus?"

Mordin's gaze flitted back to EDI. He must have frowned. In a second he'd banished the worry from his mind. "Yes."

"You appear to have been upset by the Salarian Special Task Group missive you just received."

Mordin was quietly impressed it had noticed at all. STG transmissions were specifically designed to be especially confounding to computer systems. Still, EDI was no ordinary computer. "No," he lied, ducking to check the electrophoretic runner he'd moved to the floor. "Routine update."

"I am obliged to report any evidence of unexplained mental anguish to Commander Shepard and Yeoman Chambers. Also, Cerberus respectfully requests you divulge any transmissions you receive while on the SR2. I am obliged to report any infractions of this rule to Commander Shepard and Operative Lawson."

Mordin shook his head. Cerberus and their clumsy fingers picking through his work. As if they could understand it. He waved a spindly hand. "Will divulge later. Busy now," Mordin said.

"Very well, Dr. Solus. Perhaps Commander Shepard will allow you to decontaminate the conference room for long-term sample storage."

Mordin's eyes widened, the message all-but-forgotten. "Excellent! Excellent! Room construction should allow total decontamination if table removed. Communication with Illusive Man not require quantum entanglement. Pointless opulence. Ship communications array should be suitable." He paced to the far end of the lab, tapping calculations into his omni-tool.

"Will need disinfectant. Forty liters of point six dilute Volatin solution. Personal stock insufficient. Will borrow excess concentrate from Dr. Chakwas." He snapped his fingers. "AI. Submit official request for permission to use conference room. Place requisition for replacement Volatin disinfectant. Adjust conference room temperature to thirty-eight degrees. Inform crew of potential biohazard risk. Request gas hood envelopes brought up from hangar storage. Request clean-room help from Miss Zorah for start of second shift. Reduce electrophoresis unit voltage to sixty-six volts. Extend homogenizer cycles by two."

"Yes, Dr. Solus."

The AI quieted and Promect's message returned to Mordin's mind.

_Mission Specialist Maelon abducted on Tuchanka, in mortal danger. No rescue expected._

"All messages delivered," EDI said, interrupting his thoughts. "Anything else?"

Maelon. His student. Partner. Friend. In mortal danger. No rescue expected.

Mordin banished those thoughts from his head. Pity. But no time now. More to do. Always more to do.

"Locate the krogan."

–

Mordin was not a patient salarian. Even with years of working with aliens, their constant _slowness_ dragged on his mind. It was not like he did not think other species had anything to teach him – far from it – but anything they taught was going to take a very long time and time was something of which Mordin never had enough. In the game of life, Mordin had long ago learned that it was easier just to lap the lesser minds around you than try to wait for them.

That said, certain aliens merited a little more patience than others. Like, say, a prepubescent krogan that outweighed him by twelve times and had decided that now was in fact _not _time for a health checkup, but instead time to play with his new toys again. Grunt had made it very clear that Mordin's house call could just wait until he was finished recreating the battle of Eophili (but if Garr the Battlemaster had been there, naturally).

And when phrased in the form of a threat of bodily harm, Garr the Battlemaster's semi-fictional exploits seemed quite important indeed.

So Mordin waited patiently as Grunt thundered around the lower decks, the action figures he'd bought with his shore leave money dwarfed in his armored hands.

"Wasting time!" Mordin called out, tapping one foot.

"The Battle of Eophili was not a waste." Grunt rumbled from the next room. "Warlord Kredak's assembled clans versus the High Exalted Aluvus Division under turian general Panthus. A great battle. Many krogan died. Many turians. Kredak died." Mordin _knew _his history, and he knew how touchy a subject the Battle of Eophili was to most krogan – it wasn't every day one of their heroes had a frigate dropped on him. Grunt, however, had been positively fixated on his borrowed memories of it for days, pacing his tiny room and muttering for many hours at a time. EDI had confirmed the krogan had not slept in two weeks, and Mordin was beginning to suspect Grunt's unusual 'upbringing' was starting to rear its ugly head. Even at his most childish, Grunt's thoughts were dominated by Okeer's radical hatreds.

Mordin sighed. "Preparing to use paralytic agent!"

"Garr fears no agents! Paralyze him and be chopped up and fed to the varren!"

There was another crash and the sound of steel-capped fingers scraping against the ship walls. 'Garr' was feeling destructive today.

Mordin sighed again. He had no real wish to force the issue. As the Normandy's unofficial ship xenobiologist, he'd taken upon himself the duty of upkeeping the health of all the non-human crewmembers, which necessarily involved a great many checkups. Interspecies environments were a complicated health nightmare and surveillance and prevention were key to keeping the team healthy. Still, everybody knew Shepard was the only one who could control Grunt, and even then only sometimes.

So be it. He would defer the krogan's checkup until later. That left only one more for the week.

Hopefully Samara did not own any action figures.

–

He didn't have to go far. Samara was seated quietly on the floor next to the elevator, her knees folded before her and a blue halo set serenely between her hands. Her eyes were lidded – and stone still – but all the same Mordin got the impression she was listening _very _intently to the goings-on around her.

"Shearing biotic field," he said by way of introduction, gesturing to the blue orb dancing on her fingers. "Properly balanced makes persistent corona. Understand that difficult maneuver," he observed, setting his medkit down on one of the crates Grunt had pushed out of his room to make mountain ranges for his imagined battles. He withdrew a syringe.

Samara's eyes opened. "At first," she confirmed. "In time it becomes second nature." She quieted, and for a moment Mordin thought that was all she intended to say. But then "we have not been introduced."

"Yes, sorry. Busy in lab. Professor Mordin Solus."

Samara eyed the syringe with obvious distaste. "The doctor…"

"Yes," Mordin agreed. "Specialize in non-humans. Multi-species crew. Complicated health requirements. Interconnected biotic environmental factors make disease prevention critical. Wish to evaluate your health, immunize you against likely threats. Should not be unduly painful. Consider it… initiation rite." He smiled.

Samara did not smile back. Her slate eyes did not leave the needle, their depths seeming to weigh the advantages of fighting or fleeing. Mordin hoped she chose neither – he doubted she'd respond any better to his attempts at paralysis than Grunt. "I admit to no great fondness for doctors," she said at length, "but Shepard has ordered my cooperation with his crew, and I obey." Her eyes closed again.

"Excellent," Mordin said, plunging the syringe into a bottle of clear bluish liquid and drawing a healthy dose. "First injection vaccine against Sabjes fever. Rare disease sometimes spread from humans to asari in close contact. Innocuous in humans, uncomfortable, even dangerous in asari."

"Whatever you have heard of my kind, I have no intention of getting into close contact with any of these humans," Samara said. There was no malice in her voice. Simply stating a fact.

"Surely disappointing to some," he said, chuckling as he pushed the air bubbles out of the needle, "But not my meaning. Sabjes transmitted through aerial droplets, retains virulence in air for four to eight hours. Eleven humans on this ship confirmed infected with pathogen. Risk of transmission low but real." He gestured to the needle.

Samara paused for a long moment, then finally relinquished one hand. Mordin took it and gently injected the vaccine into the purple vein beneath her wrist. "May feel slight itching, see purple discoloration. Should dissipate quickly." He patted her hand affectionately, and could not help but be struck by how very soft and dainty her digits were. Not the knobbly things humans had, but thin and sensitive.

And, of course, capable of tearing a tank in half from twenty meters. Funny how biology worked sometimes.

"Next vaccine," he began, reaching for another bottle, "against-"

"I would prefer quiet," Samara interrupted. "Do what you must."

Mordin nodded. "Very well."

Samara was quietly compliant as Mordin went through his long checklist for asari health. A half dozen immunizations, three vials of violet blood for testing, careful examination of the head frills and eyes, prodding of the muscled torso for broken bones or swollen organs. The alien woman's skin was clear and unmarred, untattooed as few asari were and unblemished by what had surely been a life of centuries of violence. Her scales were well-tended and bright, her sensory barbels un-chapped, her teeth flawless, but still Mordin inspected, taking note of the tiniest of observations. He did his work in silence, listening to Grunt's imagination destroy everything in his reach.

He was listening to Samara's heartbeat thrum from the speakers behind his head when she spoke again. "I am sorry," she said. Mordin cocked his head, inviting her to continue. "You do not deserve my contempt."

"Not offended," Mordin said, smiling as he moved onto her back. "Breathe deeply," he ordered, moving the tiny wireless microphone along the grooves. Her heartbeat's cadence changed and warped. "Asari often reluctant to accept medical help. Long lives, stable physiology. Rarely sick. Forget it's possible. Seen it before. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Samara breathed deeply and did not answer until he had moved on again. She opened her eyes to regard him. "Regardless of my reasons, I have no reason to invite my past onto you. You are very kind, as I was told."

Mordin returned to rummage through his medkit. "I was mentioned?"

"By Shepard," Samara nodded. "Yesterday evening."

"Ahh," Mordin said, drawing a tiny tap-echo generator from the bag. "Interesting. Assume he told you I was eccentric by human standards. Worked hard. Noisy. Rarely left lab. Friendly when approached but impatient. Genius. Polymath. Excellent singing voice. An ally." He rattled off each comment without much undue thinking. It was all true.

"A friend, actually."

Mordin started for the briefest moment. "Friend? Unexpected. Will think on that," he said, setting the tap-echo against Samara's stomach. He clicked it on and it started to hum.

"_Are_ you his friend?"

Mordin typed each reading with blazing speed. "Hard to say. Ally, I said. Work for him. Believe in his cause. Owe him. Respect him professionally. Believe him affable enough personally. Still. Friendship rare for salarian doctor. Too much competition, too much politics. Difficult to be friends. Only friendly rivals." He smiled as the tap-echo finished uploading the resonance data to his omni-tool. "Suspect similar situation to your own. Not unwilling to accept friendship, simply accustomed to lone professionalism."

"I have been alone for four hundred years," Samara said. There was pity in her voice, but it was not for her. "I find Shepard's orders easier to respond to than his attempts at friendship."

"Hence meditating on hallway floor to be near the krogan," Mordin said.

"Yes," Samara admitted.

"And Miss Jack."

Samara's eyes narrowed. "She is a serpent. Little threat in the daylight hours. She will stay in her hole whether I guard it or not," Samara said, tight-lipped enough to get across just what she'd do to Jack if her oath to Shepard wasn't standing in her way.

"Sensible," Mordin agreed. "Miss Jack obliged by remote-access implant to behave. Krogan unpredictable. Requires surveillance. Shepard wise to have powerful biotic keep watch." He typed a final few commands into his omni-tool, which gave a pleased beep. "Powerful _healthy _biotic, in fact. No concerns to speak of. Thank you for your time." He closed his medkit with a snap.

"Of course." Samara smiled for the first time.

_Note to self_; Mordin added mentally, _subject physically healthy but emotionally distant. Possibilities include pregnancy, philosophical turmoil, interpersonal unfulfillment. Prescribe ultrasound, documentary on Kahjean dolphins, and hypoallergenic pet, respectively. Will place requisitions_. "Favor to ask, then. Perhaps you can restrain the krogan?" he said, gesturing toward the next room with his enormous eyes.

"Shepard's will is my own," Samara said, and her eyes closed again. The corona reappeared between her fingers. "And only Shepard's."

Mordin sighed. "Ah. Pity."

* * *

_11 years previously…_

–

Mordin took notes.

Not about the seminar, of course. The doctor who was speaking, one Dr. Aegohr Salta Chalan Sar'ka Adlin Frets, was droning on and on about stabilities of protein analogs in crops grown on different planets at a level Mordin himself had mastered half a decade previously. Frets was a mediocre scientist at best, but his family's dalatress was in high standing at present and that meant that salarians from across a dozen colonies had convened to hear him speak. It was the political thing to do.

But not the _practical_ thing to do, and that fact grated at Mordin's nerves more even than Frets' voice did. Dalatress Solus could make him depart from his STG work to attend, but she couldn't make him _listen._

So instead he'd chosen a seat very near the back of the crowded auditorium, set his omni-tool to record the lecture (he'd play it back later at triple speed), and resumed work on his own projects. There was no time to listen to lesser minds like Frets'. He had something big in the works. Very, very big.

He'd been a professor at this very university for seven years before his writings on galactic population genetics and the genophage had caught the STG's attention and they'd formally inducted him into their ranks. For the last few months he'd been travelling the galaxy with STG operatives, learning their trade. Of course he'd mastered guncraft and espionage as easily as he'd mastered everything else in his life, and the tasks they'd assigned him analyzing threat values for different interspecies factions were larva's play next to the genomics he'd spent his life pursuing. It had all been disappointingly easy so far.

Mordin knew why. The STG had been testing him. Waiting for him to wow them, to prove his worth. He would not disappoint.

"Professor Solus?"

Mordin's eyes flickered away from his omni-tool screen. Excuses flew to the forefront of his mind as he prepared to see yet another of his dozens of relatives, other doctors and researchers of the Solus clan, but he was relieved instead to see the short face and distinctive eye shape of an Asipi clan salarian.

"Maelon," he said with a genial nod, wordlessly inviting the younger salarian to join him. Maelon – still in the blue-and-white smock of an Asipi scientist – slid into the bench next to him. Mordin returned to his work. "Good to see you. Studies proceeding well?"

"Yes Professor," Maelon confirmed. "The sequences you suggested have been useful and my hypotheses will be added to the codexes soon. I should graduate in forty-seven days, barring unforeseen circumstance." He grinned. "Still. Cannot say I was thankful to see you leave. Your replacement professor is a cloud-head."

"Hmm… yes," Mordin agreed, frowning. "Younger half-brother Chopan Solus. Would rather see Alto Asipi or Met'ta Chal in his place." Mordin knew such hopes were futile – his Dalatress would never give up such a prestigious clan position without a fight. When Mordin was usurped for STG work, she simply pushed up the next best Solus biologist in the line. Too bad Mordin's brothers were such uninspired researchers. "Perhaps give Solus clan chair on the educational bureau as compensation for loss of professorship. Other Solus biologists… not my match. Cloud-heads. Sorry to leave you with substandard genetics professor."

"Oh no, I understand," Maelon said. "I know whatever work you're doing is very important. Surprised to see you here at all. Do they really pull people of your caliber back for _this?_" He gestured his disgust down at the podium.

Mordin sighed. "Yes. Surprised as well. Dalatress Solus usually respectful of time constraints of my work. Usually silent. Playing political game with Adlin clan. Probably has ulterior motives."

Maelon nodded. "Females always do."

"Strong suspicions of her actual motivations," Mordin said with a knowing wink. "Cannot share yet, but highly doubt seminar her true reason for recalling me."

Maelon's eyes widened – it was an enormously audacious risk for a salarian male – even one so famously intelligent as Mordin – to presume to understand a Dalatress. Females were groomed from hatching to think of nothing else but the delicate political web around them. No male would risk trying to predict them for fear of drawing a conclusion without all the information. It was… _rude. _But of course Mordin was no normal male. He grinned at Maelon but said no more, pretending to listen to the seminar.

The two salarians fell silent except for the tapping of their fingers against their omni-tools. As he waited for an encryption module, Mordin risked a swift sideways glance at Maelon's screen. His former favored student was busy at work on his third thesis in xeno-sociogenetics. Difficult field. Good to see. Making him proud. Mordin hoped Dalatress Asipi did not overlook Maelon's talents.

In the background, Frets' sermon went on and on. The orange glow of omni-tool screens bloomed across the audience, though how many of those were taking notes and how many were pursuing other projects was hard to guess.

"Fallacious argument," Maelon grunted over his thesis at one of Frets' claims. "Ethically bankrupt."

"Methodology flawed as well," Mordin said. "Have seen better dichroic spectra in batarian journals."

The two snickered at that.

–

It turned out Mordin was right and, hardly twenty minutes later (not even halfway through the results portion of Frets' lumbering talk), he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

"Promect. Good to see you," he said, not bothering to look up from his work. Promect Solus – the tall, dark-skinned STG operative who'd recruited Mordin in the first place – did not show any sign he was impressed with Mordin's perceptions, but tapped again.

"Dalatress wishes to speak with you," he whispered. "Critical importance."

A satisfied grin sprouted on Mordin's face. Dismissing his omni-tool with a wave, he gave one last knowing look at Maelon before rising and sidling out of the bench to follow Promect out of the auditorium. The STG operative moved with the smooth grace of a career spy, but he did not look out of place walking out of the polished steps of one of Jahta University's lecture halls – the STG had long had a major presence at the school.

"Glad to see Dalatress Solus knows my work should not be interrupted for an _Adli_n clan seminar unless she wishes to see me bored to death. Wonder if her cover story fooled anyone?" Mordin said as soon as they'd left Fret's ramblings behind and stepped into the murky humidity of the open campus. A thick fog had overtaken the grounds, obscuring Promect's willowy form as the STG agent led him to a waiting shuttle.

"Please refrain from comments like that in the Dalatress' presence," Promect said humorlessly as the two strapped themselves in. "She is perturbed by recent developments with Clan Trepap and will not be in the mood to indulge your… eccentricities so much as usual." Mordin could feel Promect's gaze on the dark tattoo on his forehead. Technically, Promect was his half-brother, but beyond a slight family resemblance the two salarians couldn't be more different. Promect was silent and professional, dutiful and submissive to the political tangles of salarian society, while Mordin was free-thinking and competitive. Both of them, however, had been shining stars of the Solus clan for years and were the Dalatress' valuable servants, even if neither would ever father children.

The shuttle ride was smooth and swift, the rain pattering on its walls and the hum of the engines drowning out any attempts at conversation the two salarians might have made. The windowless craft was splashed with the Solus clan herald, but even so Mordin felt a lurch as it decelerated into the checkpoint to be verified. Silent Solus-clan inspectors, clad in the white-and-red armor of the Dalatress' guard, boarded the ship with state of the art scanners and swept its every inch, searching for hidden listening devices or anything else a rival clan might have smuggled aboard. At length the ship was cleared, but even then Mordin and Promect were escorted out and marched to the Dalatress' chamber by a small phalanx of guards equally bedecked in surveillance equipment and firearms.

The guards finally left the two of them at a vast, cream-colored door, disappearing as swiftly as they'd appeared.

"She is expecting us," Promect confirmed, opening the door with a wave of his omni-tool. Hot, wet air belched out of the chamber, and Mordin was overcome with nostalgia at the smell of mud and reeds. The two stepped into the sweltering indoor swamp just as the door slammed down behind them.

Mordin's eyes adapted to the dim light quickly as he followed Promect on a winding, tiled path. He had not been in this room for some years now, since the hacking incident with the university's clan stat monitors. It hadn't changed a bit. The sound of sala-wigs splashing around in their pools still wafted over the rows upon rows of high, waxy reeds. Masked servants – half a meter shorter than Mordin or Promect – slunk meekly about, tending the egg pools with tiny brushes.

Mordin and Promect were silent as they passed gaggles of curious sala-wigs, the next generation of Solus offspring, staring out at them from the reeds with buggy eyes and bellies still yellow with yolk. They passed the nesting pools of some of the lesser Solus females – many of Mordin's sisters among them – and headed for the Dalatress' pool, where all Solus eggs were hatched under her watchful gaze.

Promect stopped at the reed wall threshold. "Dalatress Solus. Your child Promect brings your child Mordin, as ordered."

"You may enter."

The two of them found the Dalatress waist-deep in a pool of murky green water, surrounded by pale masses of floating eggs. Salarian larvae wriggled in the water around her, tended by foot-long iridescent fish that kept them free of parasites. Dalatress Solus' head was round and hornless, but all the same she would have towered over her sons were she standing. Her orange skin was wet and smooth from a lifetime of wading in pools. Her eyes – brown and deeper than the blackest space – stared up at the dozens upon dozens of holographic panels floating above her.

She was the beating heart of the Solus clan. Until one of her daughters took her place, she was the undisputed ruler of their fates. Hers was the face every living Solus clanmember had seen on their hatching-day, and they lived to serve her wishes.

"Mordin Solus," she said, her gaze not leaving the screens. Diagrams and reports whizzed by. "Your fealty."

Mordin stooped and touched the pond surface gently. Larvae wriggled and chewed at his fingertip, staring up at him with empty eyes, and Mordin found himself trying to remember being a larvae, or even a sala-wig. He could not. "I am here, Dalatress."

"You have done as I have asked, my son," she said. "Promect speaks of your talents. You are a great asset to the Solus clan."

"Thank you, Dalatress," Mordin said, standing with the surge of pride he felt.

There was a few-second pause while the Dalatress read the newest report to pop up on her screens. "I have a new assignment for you," she said once she'd dismissed it.

"You want me to join the genophage-modification project on Tuchanka," Mordin said.

There was a long awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Mordin could see Promect stiffen at his brother's forwardness. The Dalatress finally pulled her gaze away from the screens to Mordin. Her lips pursed. "How do you know this, Mordin?"

Mordin grinned. "Obvious. Have served as highest biologist posting in Solus clan for seven years. Performed excellently throughout. Only drafted to STG after publishing of controversial paper on population-level gene therapies, where I used genophage as example multiple times. Subsequent STG missions have related to threat analysis. Easy to guess I am being groomed for project in that field. As for specifics… simply informed guess. Data classified, but krogan evolution of genophage suppression inevitable given strong artificial selection and previously-reported fast krogan mutation rate."

The Dalatress was silent for several long seconds, staring into Mordin with her abyss eyes. At length she lifted a slender limb from the water and tapped a command into one of her many panels. "Your clearance is being increased," she said. "Examine the data, Mordin."

"Excellent," Mordin said, pulling up his omni-tool. "Incidentally, have already begun developing simulations for krogan population explosion. Existing simulation technology somewhat limited, does not sufficiently account for krogan clan structure and reproductive culture. New algorithms should more accurately predict intermittent breeding cycles." With a few button presses, he'd uploaded his preliminary work to the Dalatress' screens. "Work in early phase. Will be benefitted greatly by addition of classified krogan cultural data."

The Dalatress was silent again, staring without comment at the volumes of work Mordin had already produced. "Promect," she said at last. He bowed. "Leave us." Promect bowed again and excused himself through the dense reeds without another word, leaving Mordin alone with his mother. Her eyes returned to him and she favored him with a rare, tight-lipped smile. "Have you also guessed the project's codename, Mordin?"

"I have not, Dalatress," Mordin said, grinning from earhole to earhole.

"It is Project Firebreak, and it begins now."

_

* * *

_

_Presently…_

–

If there was one thing Mordin had learned from Project Firebreak, it was that krogan were not, as a rule, easy to take out. Their skin was thick and armored, their senses keen, their strength massive. It made forcing their cooperation… difficult, to say the least. Mordin had a few darts filled with a powerful krogan sedative that he'd used extensively in his STG days – but even if he could hit Grunt in one of the few vulnerable spots on his half-ton body, then all he'd have is a half-ton _unconscious _krogan to deal with, and that was little better.

In the end it was drugged food – an old classic, really – that caught the krogan in Mordin's web. A half-liter of an elcor sleep-aid injected into some Earth poultry had been too much for Grunt to resist, and now the drugged krogan stumbled disoriented around the room, most of his action figures scattered across the lower decks as he tried to remember what he was doing with the one still in his hand.

Mordin did not bother restraining the krogan, instead padding along beside him, darting in to gather the samples he needed and back out to a safe distance before Grunt knew what was happening.

"Very hungry," Grunt was saying to himself, staggering out into the hallway where Samara watched the pair with no hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Just ate," Mordin replied, threading a needle between two of the plates on Grunt's arm. The krogan's thick blood dripped into the vial.

Grunt lifted his arm and stared at the needle. "Garr will feed you to the varrens," he mumbled, tongue lounging outside his mouth. "Battle of Eophili. Your fault. Dishonorable. Feed you to the varrens."

"Later," Mordin promised, tucking the blood sample into his belt next to the rest of the elcor tranquilizer.

Grunt nodded, satisfied, and lurched on. Mordin let him lurch, dropping behind to prepare his final needle while Grunt reintroduced his plated face to the corridor wall. The krogan let out a tired moan, his final, most coveted toy finally dropping from his fist to rest next to the elevator exit.

"Garr… invincible…" Grunt concluded before heading off towards Zaeed's room.

Mordin clucked to himself, amused. Krogan were fascinating creatures. So immediately willful and honest. Even drugged to the eyeballs with tranquilizer that would put down a shatha, Grunt was off looking for more to amuse himself. Scientists the krogan were not, but Mordin could not fault that kind of curiosity.

There was a hum as the elevator descended into its shaft – no doubt Shepard's away team had returned from their run on the Citadel – and Mordin looked up just in time to see the doors slide open and admit Misters Vakarian, Donnelly, and Hadley, their arms laden with supplies. Donnelly was turning a fearsome looking camera over in his hands, experimentally testing each of its dozens of buttons and levers.

"You want to give that back, Donnelly?" Hadley was asking, following behind with two cameras like it.

The engineer grinned and held the camera out of reach, peering through its viewfinder at random objects around him. "Ha! Not likely. This thing is cool."

"It's a sophisticated instrument, not a toy," Hadley insisted, reaching for Donnelly's camera. "It's fragile."

Donnelly batted Hadley's hands away and darted right past Mordin. "Jesus H Christ in a handbasket, Hadley! I know how to handle sensitive equipment! Who d'you think maintains the life support systems on this ship?"

Hadley grimaced. "Daniels."

"Well, yeah. But who d'you think keeps the Normandy's engine runnin'?"

"Daniels again. And the helmet girl."

Donnelly frowned, searching for a new argument. His face lit up. "Power! Who does power?"

"How about who does heuristic scanners and EM instrumentation? And cameras? Me," Hadley said, holding out a hand. "Give it up."

"Yeah, but you're so boring!" Donnelly protested, dodging another of Hadley's lunges. "Camera that can see through walls and _clothes_ and you just want to use it for _science?_ There are other things to look at! Certain crewmember activities that need… monitoring." Samara ignored the lewd wink he tossed her.

"It wouldn't work on the thief, Donnelly," Hadley griped, completely missing Donnelly's innuendo. "It isn't like a ship sensor. Goto's cloaking field is a Thatax-9 geometry, designed to fool aliens, so it has a huge functional spectrum. You'd practically have to go into gamma to see through it." He snatched the camera from Donnelly's hands.

The engineer's shoulders fell. "Right," he said, sighing. "The cloaking field. 'Cuz that's totally what I meant." He stopped and stared at the ground. "What's with all the toys?"

"Grunt's," Mordin said. "Characters from Garr the Battlemaster. Animated action vid series. Poor production values but surprisingly complicated story. Enjoy it, myself."

"Mordin, got those cameras we've been talking about," Hadley said, ignoring them. "Calibrated, they should help EDI recognize your unusual metabolite problem." He approached the salarian without hesitation. Indeed, aside from Crewman Matthews, Mordin was probably the closest thing Hadley had to a friend aboard the Normandy. The man was, with the possible exception of Miss Lawson, the smartest human aboard, but his prodigy had come with an ego that had given him a bad reputation among the rest of the crew. Mordin himself found Hadley a bit lacking in inspiration, but he was one of the few aboard who could keep up with the salarian's incessant experimentation, at least enough to be useful.

And he brought Mordin new cameras. What could be better?

Mordin clucked in excitement, grabbing one of the proffered cameras and turning it this way and that in his hands. "Excellent, excellent!" he said. "Will expect them installed as soon as possible. Sentient spectrophotometric scanner of enormous potential use." Hadley nodded. "Trip to Citadel was a success, then?"

"See for yourself," Garrus replied, emerging from the elevator with an enormous rifle in each hand and two more strapped to his back. "Zaeed's arms dealer friend came through."

"Excellent," Mordin repeated, taking one of the guns and giving it a cursory examination as a courtesy only – he was more interested in talking to Shepard about spreading his work into the conference room. "Shepard back aboard, then?"

"Yeah, just talking armor with Taylor, I think," the turian said, turning to retrieve a steel crate from behind him.

"An' that's not even the best part," Donnelly interjected, holding a box above his head in triumph. "We got power couplings! Nashan Stellar Dynamics, baby!"

And that was when the situation exploded. There was an audible _crack _as Garrus stepped into the hallway, directly onto one of Grunt's misplaced toys. The turian's mandibles fluttered in confusion at the smashed plastic on the floor for the second or two it took Grunt to lumber back into view.

Mordin's quick mind saw what was coming next. Pity there was no time to stop it.

"MIIIIINE!" Grunt bellowed, the drugs in his system dispersed in a second under his fury. He thundered into Garrus hard enough to break the turian's armor shell. Mordin managed to sidestep out of the way just fast enough to avoid being caught in an avalanche of armored alien and fallen weapons, but Hadley and Donnelly were not so lucky and were tossed aside like chaff.

Grunt and Garrus' journey ended with a noisy clang up against the door to Grunt's storage room, the krogan's forearm smashed up against the turian's neck.

"YOU!" Grunt roared, pushing so hard they all heard one of Garrus's plates crack. "YOU TURIANS DID THIS!" It was not Grunt but Okeer they heard now. "YOU COULD NOT FACE THE WARLORD SO YOU DROPPED A SHIP ON HIM!"

Everyone was shouting – Grunt, Hadley, and Donnelly were red-faced and furious. Garrus, on the other hand, his neck wrapped in one of Grunt's massive arms, just wheezed and struggled for air. His armored feet kicked out fearsomely as he struggled to pry Grunt's grip away, but the krogan was much too strong.

Grunt just roared in anger and drew back a fist.

There was a blue flash as Samara hurled herself into battle. She'd skidded down the hallway like a blue blur, her hands wheeling up as she neared. Mordin saw the air distort around Grunt's feet as the monster's gravity reversed. The krogan was too heavy to lift completely, but where a thousand pounds had kept him rooted to the ground before, now he swayed like a balloon. He took a drunken step backwards, stumbling over his feet.

Garrus saw his chance and, slamming his feet down into the floor, pushed off with all his might. Turian and krogan alike somersaulted backwards in a drunken arc.

The blow Samara landed on Grunt's nose was so powerful Mordin suspected the whole ship heard it. If they didn't, they definitely heard her tear Grunt from the turian and hurl him back down the hallway with a spectacular crash.

Mordin was there by the time Grunt landed and darted in to point-blank range. Raising one fist he fired a tranquilizer dart into the roof of the krogan's open mouth, right behind where the armored palette ended. The big reptile's angry confusion melted away in seconds, replaced by blissful sleep even as he murmured threats against all who opposed. His thick, armored limbs went slack, thudding as they fell against the floor.

At the other end of the hall, Garrus gasped desperately for air while Donnelly struggled to drag him to his feet. The turian doubled over and vomited, heaving and clutching at the ugly blue bruise already blooming on the soft tissue of his throat.

"Mr. Vakarian. Tilt your head back," Mordin commanded, grabbing for Garrus's neck. Garrus coughed and swayed on his feet but let him examine the bruise. Mordin tapped it gently, then pressed a hand deep into the cleft of Garrus' neck to hear his lungs. He grabbed the turian by the jaw and peered down into his throat. "Don't see any permanent damage," he said, prying Garrus' fearsome mouth open further. "Forelungs luckily not harmed. Will need to do test of lung function."

"No permanent damage!" Hadley was shouting. Anger had made his face almost as red as the trickle of blood seeping from a gash on his head. "That thing almost killed us!"

"Turians hardy," Mordin said, still staring down Garrus' throat. "Hard to kill, Mr. Hadley."

Garrus warded Mordin's prying fingers away with an angry shake of his head. His voice was a wet rasp. "I'm going to _kill_ him. I'm going to _kill _him." He stumbled over to where he'd dropped his rifles, pushing Mordin aside.

Hmm… Problem. Shepard would not approve. "Stop the turian, Samara," Mordin said. "Shepard will thank you later." He looked to the asari, who stood sentinel over the fallen krogan with no expression on her elegant face.

"No," she said.

"Damn right no!" Hadley was shouting. "That thing has gone too far! Shoot his head off, Garrus!"

Garrus had a furious gleam in his eye, and looked ready to do just that as he lurched over with his reassembled rifle. Mordin stepped into his path. "Cannot let you do that, Mr. Vakarian. Immoral to shoot sleeping opponent. Unacceptable."

Donnelly joined in, "I think the doctor's right actually, Garrus. You gotto take a step back, mate."

Garrus stared hatefully down at them. Mordin was not confused – Garrus dwarfed them in strength just as much as the krogan had dwarfed him. An angry turian was not a fun enemy. Still. Neither was Mordin. Garrus' armored shoulders shook with rage. "That krogan has nearly killed me _three times_ now," he growled. "I'm finishing this. Move."

Some part of Mordin knew he was fighting a losing battle. Why defend this krogan? Grunt was a liability. A danger to the mission, a mission that might be of critical importance to the survival of _trillions_. Why should he allow one krogan to jeopardize that? Was he really letting his guilt about Project Firebreak affect his judgment? Was he just trying to make amends?

It was impossible to know, but still the decision came fast.

Mordin's arm flashed up, lining up a shot with Garrus' neck. "Can stop you by force if necessary, Mr. Vakarian," he threatened. "Tranquilizer unhealthy, can cause permanent liver damage in turians. Would prefer to convince you."

Garrus was not given a chance to respond as Mordin was suddenly knocked aside by Hadley, who'd charged in and tackled him about the waist. Hadley was not a big or a strong man, but he was big enough to hurt, and Mordin went down in a tangle of spindly limbs. "Do it, Garrus!" Hadley shouted, trying to press his weight down on top of Mordin's narrow chest.

"STOP!" Shepard's voice carried across the hangar as he came running in from where he'd jumped down the access shaft in the life support room on the crew deck, out of armor but carrying his assault rifle. Jacob, Thane, and Zaeed came behind, guns drawn, and darted into the fray. Jacob yanked Hadley off of an indignant Mordin with a rough shove, sparing Mordin the need to snap-freeze the man's face as a lesson.

Shepard inserted himself in front of Garrus without hesitation, grabbing his gun barrel and pointing it into the ceiling. "Stop it, Garrus. Now."

"He attacked me!" Garrus shouted, trying to wrest his gun back. "I'm done!"

"You're dismissed, Garrus! To your quarters!" Shepard shouted, red-faced.

Garrus' eyes widened dangerously. There was a long, pregnant pause interrupted only by the sound of Samara's biotics blossoming at her fingers.

"Now, Garrus!"

The tension in the room seemed to crystallize the air, but with three gun-barrels and a Justicar pointed his way, Garrus had no choice. He stared daggers down at Shepard. "Aye aye… _Commander_," he said, and turned to lumber away, hand clutching at his throat.

Shepard watched him leave, then turned. "What happened?" he asked, staring down at Grunt as Jacob hauled Mordin back onto his feet. Mordin brushed the dust off of his coat with as much dignity as he could salvage before dutifully stooping to check Grunt's vitals. Donnelly and Hadley stepped in, stammering explanations as fast as they could. Hadley's face was flushed with blood as he waved the shattered remains of his cameras in Shepard's view in a way he'd never have the courage to do normally, but Shepard listened to it all in a grim silence. He waited until the two men had trailed off before he spoke. "You didn't say anything to him?"

"Nothing!" Hadley claimed. "It was the damn toy!"

"Garrus _mighta_ broken his Garr the Battlemaster action figure…" Donnelly added, staring at his toes.

"Also tranquilized Grunt for checkup," Mordin admitted, prying open the krogan's mouth to check for tongue swelling. "May have inhibited… judgment... Such as it is."

Shepard frowned. "Great. Just great." He turned to stare at Grunt's unconscious form. "You're all dismissed. Mordin, you stay." He stooped next to Mordin.

"Not until you space that monster!" Hadley insisted. "I will _not _work under these unsafe conditions anymore!"

"It's a suicide mission, Lawrence. Enough," Shepard said, not regarding the man. "I'll deal with him."

"I said-"

There was a _thwuck _as Mordin fired a second tranquilizer dart, this time into Hadley's foot. The man was asleep before he struck the ground.

Everyone stared at him.

Mordin blinked innocently. "Purely medical reasons. Undue stress damaging to humans. Prescribe rest." He retracted his dart launcher into its wrist compartment with a dramatic _click _and gestured at Hadley's drooling form. "Prescription delivered."

_

* * *

9 years previously…_

–

Contrary to popular impression (which mostly focused on the searing equatorial deserts wherefrom Warlord Okeer and most other offworld krogan had come), much of Tuchanka was cold. Nuclear winter had disrupted weather patterns of the once-temperate world and it would be thousands of years – or even tens of thousands – before they'd returned to their rightful place. Krogan were equally hardened against burning winds or freezing, but most of Tuchanka's already-minimal plantlife had been extirpated throughout much of the planet, leaving local krogan clans scratching at the rocks for enough food.

In the meantime, however, the cold was a boon. Deep in the Krushk Wastes, blasted by sand and sub-zero winds, the best and brightest minds of the STG worked in comfort. Their mobile laboratory had all the amenities of home and, buried under a frosted dune, even the strongest wind couldn't penetrate their scientific paradise.

"Simulation one-one-one-one-four," Operative Jirin was saying, scrutinizing the holographic representation of the wastes through his eye-mounted HUD. "Population adjusted by Telath calculations." Little glowing spots speckled across the miniature landscape represented krogan villages and burgeoned or winked out as the hypothetical effects of the newest proposed genophage modification were played out in silico.

For his part, Mordin didn't need the graphic – his mind cut the trends out of the raw numbers with practiced ease – but he had to admit it made a useful demonstration, with different regions shifting colors as their local krogan populations changed. Mordin watched the display, his enormous eyes flickering from settlement to settlement as each round of calculations played out. It was a marvelously complicated program and the most scientifically controversial part of the team's work – every krogan birth or death had wide ramifications for the whole region, as other tribes advanced or retracted in response to their enemies' numbers. Krogan could be counted on to take whatever territory they could, especially if it belonged to their enemies, but whether they could _hold_ that territory – or indeed whether spreading caused them to succumb to clanless raiders or other threats – was much harder to guess.

"Problem," he interrupted, still swirling his cup of hot tea in one hand. "Pause."

Jirin frowned but obeyed, and the simulation froze in place.

Mordin crouched next to one of the miniature villages. "This. Attug clan garrison. Supported by data?"

"Model incorporates most recent algorithms," Jirin insisted, resuming the simulation with a tired wave. "Populations adjusted by Telath calculations, but validation impossible until Kirrahe's team begins reconnaissance operations on south ridges."

"Validation unnecessary," Mordin said, still watching the Attug garrison grow. "This population clearly false. Much too large. Local resources insufficient to support four thousand krogan."

"Attug clan is one of the few still growing," Jirin said.

"Only because of willingness to adopt clanless as slaves. Assure you, slave survival unlikely. Attug garrison likely less than half of indicated value. No need to waste validation trip. Model one-one-one-one-four clearly invalid."

Jirin's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Mordin had a frustrating habit of dismissing hours of work in a millisecond, but he also had the even-more-frustrating habit of always being right to. He wasn't the _only _genius at work on Project Firebreak, but he had managed, in many ways, to become the unofficial lab leader whose opinion guided the science team's direction. Egos inflated like bulta roots in any large salarian collaboration, and every scientist there had tried to dethrone Mordin, but he was simply too sharp.

"I will check the survival curves for one-one-one-five," Jirin said, calling up his calculations for what felt like the millionth time.

Mordin took another sip of his tea and sniffed, not looking up from his omni-tool, which beeped and bloomed with the newest data. "Good." Mordin glanced over the mailed results in a heartbeat.

There was the sound of tapping feet and Maelon came sliding into the room just seconds after his data, omni-tools ablaze on both hands. "Professor Solus!" he called out, tapping away with both hands simultaneously. "New development on oral solution!"

Mordin frowned. "Unsustainable solution, Maelon," he said, flipping through page after page of diagrams on his student's most recent work. His protégé had joined the project less than a year after he himself had, a fact which pleased Mordin to no end. The younger salarian had a tendency to let his passions influence his science, but when focused had the sort of flexible creativity other scientists could only dream of. Mordin wanted to see him succeed. Still, his stubbornness had not helped so far. "Not a valid solution," he said. "Compound would be metabolized in a matter of days. Sterility effects would be temporary." He dismissed Maelon's data with a wave.

"That's the point!" Maelon insisted. "This way we can introduce the compound into krogan food supplies to curtail local population explosions, without having to remodify the species as a whole! The krogan can continue to evolve and we can continue to study their numbers."

Mordin scratched his chin. He hated to stamp on his student's enthusiasm, but simulation after simulation had pointed at one solution, and one solution only. "Not parsimonious solution," he said, "Complicated. Inelegant. Expensive. Prone to failure. Difficult to track. How to control dosage? How to maintain clandestine presence on Tuchanka without risking new diplomatic incident?"

"We can even use it to help fix the damage to Tuchanka," Maelon tried. "Use it on pro-war clans, leave the offworlder friendly ones alone. In a century or two we might have a krogan population ready to rejoin the galactic community!"

"No," Mordin insisted, eyes narrowed. "No. No cultural interference. Must not repeat mistakes of the past."

"But we can undo the mistakes. Fix what _we _caused!"

"World exists in equilibrium, Maelon. Always in flux. Disturb equilibrium, world adjusts. Forms new equilibrium state. Stabilizes. How long before new equilibrium is natural? How long before returning to old state would constitute another disturbance? Cause additional damage. Must allow nature to adapt on its own now."

"But nature _is _adapting, if we'd just let it!" Maelon insisted, gesturing to the miniature holographic Tuchanka. "The krogan are recovering from the genophage _we_ decided to inflict on them."

"Must let simulation run to conclusion," Mordin said, crossing his arms. "Krogan recovering from genophage but not from cultural damage inflicted by salarian uplifting. Need more time, more time. All simulations point to disastrous population explosion if left unchecked."

"We can't let computers decide this for us."

"Why not?" Mordin asked. "_Our_ computers. Built by us. Guided by us. Handle bigger data sets, yes, pursue solutions to more complicated problems, yes, but still constrained by our intelligence. Tools for applying salarian thinking to enormous database of factors."

Maelon's face fell. "But…"

Mordin stopped him with a tender hand on his shoulder. "Agree, Maelon, must not use computers _carelessly_. Must not decide on solution, then design simulations to agree. Must be honest. But give computer _all_ data, let simulation run to conclusion, let consider _all_ possibilities. But then computer conclusions inescapable. Immoral – _wrong –_ to ignore it." He patted Maelon. "Understand?"

"Yes Professor," he said, eyes downcast.

Mordin retook his seat and took another sip from his tea before resummoning his omni-tool. He and Maelon had had the same kinds of arguments many times already – a fact which he did not resent in the least. Most salarians were thinkers of many talents, equally at home discussing the empirical as the ethical, and the science team had spent many an hour around this very table dissecting the finer moral points of what they had to do. For the most part the conclusion had seemed clear from the beginning – when a dozen separately-designed simulation schemes all pointed in one direction, it was hard to escape it.

Still, it was ethically… difficult. Complicated. Not undecipherable, but complicated. Mordin's average daily sleep had gone three point eight minutes since beginning sequence testing.

There was a slam from above as the base's hidden hatch was extruded to the surface. The three salarians craned their necks at the sound of muttered curses and watched as Operative Rentola descended the narrow passageway, his entire body covered in a fine dust. Firebreak's second-in-command after Kirrahe was a pragmatic, unwaveringly negative soldier, the only one of the stealth operatives for which Mordin had found any respect yet.

Rentola dropped to the floor and clapped the sand from his hands. "Liable to dry out if we stay out much longer," he grumbled, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the bright laboratory lights. "Updated data," he said, pulling a tiny drive from his belt. "Validation data from farther up the ridge. Kirrahe sends his regards." He tossed it.

Jirin caught the thrown drive and plugged it into the simulator display. There was a beep.

"Good. Running simulation one-one-one-one-five," he said, and the four salarians watched the numbers change. "Population adjusted by Telath calculations, adjustments to survival curves gamma-three-eight and gamma-three-nine, updated with validation data for region oh-one-one-three". Colors shifted as predicted krogan clan populations were replaced by observed counts from Kirrahe's team. The computer gave a blat as Kup village, a small canyon-town of krogan less than a mile from the Firebreak basecamp, was wiped off the map.

"What happened?" Mordin asked, eyes watching the ripples of the Kup krogan deaths move across Tuchanka.

"Slaughtered last night by Ovo clan," Rentola said, shaking his head. "Whole village destroyed, eight hundred-thirty. Females and platelings too. Kirrahe suspects Ovo clan was eliminating all perceived threats to the underground spring it captured last week. Rough business. Hate to see it."

The holographic Tuchanka had started to turn red. With the loss of a few hundred more krogan, the simulation was playing out very differently as other clans spread out to fill the power vacuum. Villages winked out one after the other, and regions darkened to a bloody red as local krogan populations died out. Clearly the current hypothetical genophage modification strain would greatly hurt the Wastes krogan cultures if used.

"Goddess…" Maelon whispered as a wave of red spread across the miniature Wastes. The salarians watched in silence as more and more of the simulated krogan they were trying to protect died off in a chain reaction of over-effective genophage strains destroying already struggling populations.

"Must… must let simulation run to completion," Mordin said, although for once he wasn't sure he wanted to.

_

* * *

Presently…_

–

Mordin had never seen the Illusive Man – and didn't plan to – but all the same he liked to imagine how the Man might react seeing his expensive quantum communications room turned into a glorified incubator. Busy trying to deal with Garrus, Shepard had ceded the room to Mordin without a second's hesitation and, less than an hour later, Tali and Mordin were well into transforming it.

Miss Zorah – stripped of her veil and helmet hooked to an external oxygen tank – was as content as she could be, and hummed as she worked spraying the walls with a disinfectant vapor. Volatile disinfectant wreathed her from all sides and made the air roil with poison fumes but all the same the quarian had a skip in her step that she hadn't had since she'd left the original Normandy.

"Ahh…" she sighed contentedly, backing up to survey her work. "I love the smell of clean." She turned to Mordin. "Or I would if, you know, I could smell."

Mordin smiled behind his own gasmask as he unloaded stacks of plates gathered from his lab. "Assumed you would be familiar with decontamination procedures. Didn't guess would enjoy so much or would have hired sooner."

"It's a quarian thing," Tali said, rubbing a hand on the wall where the black-and-orange Cerberus logo had started to melt away. "'Cleanliness saves lives', they always say. 'The ship is your second suit'." She traced a finger through the melting logo and held it up to her helmet, inspecting the orange paint on her fingertips. "Can't deny I like seeing the logos go too, though."

"Ahh yes. Cerberus/quarian rivalry. Fascinating to see you on ship at all."

Tali rubbed the paint on her hip and turned away. "Yeah… well… We all have jobs to do," she mumbled, lifting her sprayer for a second coat. "What do you need this space for anyway?"

"Cell culture. Collector samples proving… difficult to grow. Completely alien conditions, difficult to guess nutritional and environmental requirements of unfamiliar biosphere. Very engaging puzzle." He held up one of his dishes, where the jelly-like media was crystal-clear, untouched by growth. "Normally this level of sterility not necessary for properly-handled plates but having difficulty avoiding denaturation. Collector cells expire quickly. Extremely fragile."

"They're dying?"

Mordin nodded. "Indeed. Explanation unknown thusfar but analysis of oxidation of protein homologs reveals cells constructed entirely of relatively fresh material. Very little residual damage or structural turnover. Perhaps lack repair mechanisms entirely. Die under slightest stress. Makes growth conditions critical for study." He set the plate down. "Next experiments will attempt variable gas environments. Familiar with anaerobic hood construction?"

Tali sighed, the light in her mouthpiece managing to look more resigned than would seem possible. "Like… a sterile bubble?" she deadpanned. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm familiar."

Mordin smiled. "Yes, figured you would be."

"Spent ten years of my life in one."

"May be critical for collector growth as well," Mordin said, ignoring her self-pity. "Dissection of corpses reveals no evidence of immune system or systemic stress response organs."

"Like the quarians again," Tali said.

Mordin gasped. "No!" he said, "_Unlike_ quarians! Quarian immune systems _intact_, simply _untrained _due to prolonged life in near-sterile conditions, subsequent loss of skin and gut flora." He poked at Tali's mesh-covered stomach. "Lost your commensal bacteria. Lost a million years of cumulative adaptive immunity. Have no humoral immunity to contribute to children." He waggled a finger at Tali's helmet. "Entirely reversible given time."

"But-"

"This!" Mordin interrupted, holding up the cell dish again, "_very _different. No immune system at all. Odder yet, no repair mechanisms! Completely unique among all known life. Quarian lifespan measured in decades. Calculations suggest collector bodies expire as protein homologs oxidize. Likely lifespan measured in weeks!" Mordin gesticulated wildly – Tali was no biologist but he didn't exactly have people lining up to listen to his discoveries these days. It was a relief to have someone to share with. "Even short-lived organisms tend to evolve repair mechanisms but in Collectors… nothing. As if systems present then surgically removed! Perhaps Reapers uninterested in maintenance."

Tali shook her head. "Why would they do that? What use is a big bug that falls apart in a week?"

"Guesses! Hypotheses! Ideas!" Mordin shouted, tapping his head. "Perhaps all Collector deployments complete in that time period. Proper technology could liquefy recalled units, recycle biomass, reclaim as liquid constituents to be reintegrated into new units. Maybe more efficient than repair mechanisms in individual units. Maybe allows redistribution between different morphs as tactical situation changes. Maybe repair simply foreign concept to durable Reapers. Many possibilities, impossible to know without experimentation. If possible to talk to Reapers, would ask!"

Tali fell silent and the two of them worked without speaking for minutes. Once she'd finished soaking the walls in disinfectant, and long after the last wisps of orange from the logos had been washed down the drain, Tali set to work installing the balloon-like gas hoods. It was not until after the second hood was already being inflated that she spoke again, her voice very small behind the nitrogen tank valves she was adjusting. "I've talked to a Reaper," she said, as if she were afraid how he might react. "On Virmire."

Mordin stared at her. "Yes! Read the reports. Envious." He paused. "Not of the nuclear annihilation of your crewmember, of course," he added. "Not envious of that at all. But opportunity to speak to ancient war machine? Fascinating."

"It wasn't fascinating, Mordin," Tali admitted, voice distant. "It was scary."

"Only by virtue of being unknown."

"It's amazing how often the unknowable is trying to destroy us."

Mordin's eyes widened. "Did not say unknow_able_," he said, aghast. "Un_known_. Reapers simply new synthetic race to be understood. Have _reason _to destroy you. Hard to imagine, perhaps – enjoy your company myself, do not wish death on you – but Reapers different. Must be studied. Difficult charge, but not impossible."

"Even if they _are _just robots, how could we understand them? You can't even get the collector cells to grow." Tali demanded.

"Not yet," Mordin agreed. "But I will."

"How do you know? Maybe they're ungrowable!"

Mordin paused for a moment, trying to decide how best to explain. Quarians were smart creatures – arguably just as smart as salarians if in different ways – but woefully fixated on the here and now. Often eschewed broad theories in favor of simple practicalities. Raw data. Functional results.

Ahh yes.

Mordin set down his plates and approached Tali, stooping to grab her hand in one of his. The quarian seemed to shrink next to him as he splayed her fingers out against his own. Tali looked on in curiosity. "Astral pollination theory," Mordin said simply, gesturing to their matched hands. "Our digits. Very similar." Indeed – Mordin's fingers were longer than Tali's, but otherwise their hands were almost identical, down to the spacing between the digits. "Why?"

"I… don't know."

"The krogan's hand similar as well. And Mr. Vakarian's. And vorcha hands. And Collectors'. Astral pollination theory famous idea by salarian biologists to explain anatomical similarity between asari and salarians. Two legs, two arms, two eyes. Theory said common ancestor – simple, monocellular lifeform – spread through space to populate distant planets. Physiology of ancestor – astral pollen – imposed constraints on evolution, resulted in similar end-points."

"Is it true?"

"No evidence to suggest truth," Mordin admitted, dropping her hand. "More commonly attributed to constraints of physics. All life faces similar challenges. Three fingered hand effective design for solving common problem. Appears independently on different biospheres." Mordin turned to return to his plates. "General explanation for similarities in unrelated organisms. Why you and I both have three fingers. Why psychologically similar enough to interact." He turned. "And why confident Collector cells can be grown in a lab. Unusual, but still life. Still vulnerable, beautiful, complicated. Still must eat and protect itself. Just in new ways. Not unknowable. Not ungrowable." He smiled.

Tali stared at her hand, haloed eyes screwed up in thought, and Mordin's smile widened. He missed teaching – seeing the look of contemplation on his students' faces as he opened new doors for them. It was a noble profession.

"So… you think the Reapers _grow _the Collectors from scratch?"

Mordin nodded. "Likely hypothesis. Seeker swarm and collector infantry morphs contain extensive cybernetic implantation, but no evidence of surgery. Likely tissue grown on mechanical scaffold." He _hrmed_ and tapped his forehead. "Or very, very careful surgery. Hard to fathom for mile-long metal cephalopod. But possible."

"Have you tried growing them on scaffolds?"

Mordin paused.

Tali yelped in surprise as she was suddenly folded in a crushing salarian hug. Mordin pulled back and tapped on the visor of her helmet. "Brilliant! Very smart, Ms. Zorah!" he said, beaming. The pieces fell into place in an instant as he compressed her again.

He let go and started to pace, talking to himself at a fantastic rate. "Excellent idea. All this time, have assumed cells and machinery separate! Have assumed cells could grow independently! Foolish, foolish assumption." He turned and paced again, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. How had it not occurred to him? He had been so distracted with the biology that he'd forgotten to step back and look at it as a non-scientist. Miss Zorah's practical mind did her much credit. "Simple enough experiment. Assume important growth receptor analogs resected. Would fit other missing aspects of anatomy. So obvious! So obvious! Dissolve dead swarm morph, attempt to measure electrical fields. Replicate on silicon plates, test voltage scans."

He looked at Tali, face urgent. "Must return to lab. Must begin! Impressed, Miss Zorah. Can complete remainder of task alone?"

Tali laughed. "Go ahead."

"Excellent! Excellent!" Mordin was chattering as he marched away, leaving a very-satisfied Tali knee-deep in disinfectant suds.

–

The ship was asleep, the krogan was asleep, but Mordin was awake.

Shepard had kept Grunt's outburst quiet for a few hours while he'd pondered what to do, but the rumors flew and eventually he'd been forced to call a ship meeting. The krogan was dangerous, he'd said to the gathered crew, and was being confined to the hangar until something could be done with him. The hangar was off-limits until further notice.

Mordin chose to take a liberal interpretation of what 'off-limits' meant. It was a rare opportunity to study Okeer's 'perfect krogan' without risk to life or limb, and he was not going to pass it up. He'd spent the afternoon plating out new cells on every different electrical field he could find (which had involved confiscating more than a few of the ship's flashlights and electric toothbrushes and any other appliance in reach) until the middle of the third shift when most of the crew was asleep, then gathered his medkit and snuck his way into the maintenance shafts.

The lights were dim in the empty hangar, the krogan's noisy breathing the only sound as Mordin stepped out of the emergency egress shaft. His knees hurt from the cramped corridor and he had no great love of dust, but Samara would surely be guarding the door and so it was his only way. He found the krogan easily enough, shackled to the back of the Kodiak and still unconscious from the sedative he'd been given.

Mordin worked quickly, fingers questing along Grunt's plates, testing for bone damage. Samara's blow had cracked several of Grunt's cranial scutes, but beneath crusted blood Mordin could see the thick bone already knitting back together. Krogan were fantastic regenerators – so much so, in fact, that their bodies tended to overshoot and grow bony tumors in the wake of serious injury. Grunt was young, however, many of his plates still soft and unfused, and Mordin couldn't find the slightest nodule.

"Cranial, cervical, dorsal scutes evenly formed and healthy," Mordin muttered into his omni-tool, "No evidence of osteal scarring." Grunt gave a massive yawn that reeked of carnivore and Mordin took the opportunity to wedge the krogan's jaws open with a nearby spanner. "Splitting on upper left molars three, six, and seven, likely from blow to the head. Replacement teeth already crowning beneath."

Mordin drew a pair of forceps from his open medical box and levered them beneath one of the broken teeth. Even with the replacement tooth clearly visible, ready to displace it, Mordin had to put nearly his entire weight into yanking the broken tooth away, and even then the wicked molar split in two and had to be rescued from the back of Grunt's throat. Throughout the procedure Grunt remained still, dead to the world.

Mordin's hands were dripping with thick krogan saliva by the time he'd collected the tooth fragments into a vial and tucked them away.

"Will dissolve tooth back at lab," he said to himself. "More rigorous genetic tests. Confirm full penetration of genophage markers, search for possible genetic explanations for sudden rages. Not hopeful of results. Suspect behavioral disorder function of unusual upbringing. Not properly naturalized even by krogan standards. Recommend he not remain aboard."

"Doctor's orders?" a voice asked, and Mordin jumped in surprise to see Shepard, face haggard and arms crossed.

"Medically?" Mordin asked, burying his surprise. "Yes. Krogan require space, dangerous on small ships already. Compounded with possible mental or behavioral disorder, interspecies crew, and uncommon strength and stamina of this particular krogan, may be recipe for disaster."

Shepard was still, mind clearly elsewhere. Easy enough to guess why.

"Mr. Vakarian refused further treatment," Mordin said. "Did not pursue issue as did not perceive it medically necessary, but trust you have seen to his health?"

Shepard sighed, dropping to a seat on a nearby crate as Mordin administered a second sedative to Grunt. "He isn't talking to me either. He just needs time to cool off, he'll be fine," Shepard said, though whether he was trying to convince himself or Mordin was hard to say. "Gets riled up. I think some part of Garrus still sees krogan as troublemakers on the Wards."

Mordin nodded absently. "Common opinion among turians," he said. "Suspect most would see krogan extinct if possible." Mordin dug through his medical bag for the right immunobooster.

"Tupari, Mordin?" Shepard asked suddenly, voice amused. "You drink Tupari?"

Mordin looked up in surprise, then down to the brightly-decorated bottle sticking halfway out of his medical bag. _Tupari – it will make you like Blasto,_ it said on the bottle's label, _Don't you want to be like Blasto?_ Shepard's eyebrows creaked up on his forehead. Mordin rose, deftly plucking the bottle from the bag. "No, no. Never," he insisted, inspecting the label. "Terrible nutrition. Little more than sugary poison. Addictive but nutritionally useless. Never drink it."

"Why do you have it, then?"

"Useful!" Mordin insisted. "Medical uses! Potent stimulator when injected into human heart. Can reset asymmetric heartbeat. Liquid defibrillator. Also useful as paint thinner, I believe," he added, still contemplating the bottle.

Shepard chuckled and the two lapsed back into silence, Shepard looking on as Mordin continued his work. It was many minutes before Shepard spoke again. "What am I going to do with him, Mordin?"

"Multiple possibilities," Mordin said, pulling the wrench back out of Grunt's mouth. "Could kill him, as Misters Hadley and Vakarian suggested."

"We both know I'm not going to do that, Mordin. He's… he doesn't mean to do it. He's a krogan. He's a child. He was born fully-grown with a head full of Okeer's bullshit. He's sick. I don't know."

Mordin stood. "Possible side effect of Okeer's tampering," he agreed. "Other tankborn krogan on Korlus in similar poor states."

"Yeah…"

"Also possible Grunt suffers krogan illness. Not familiar with it myself, but krogan medical knowledge is limited."

"So what do_ you _think we should do?"

Now it was Mordin's turn to sigh. What a question. What a person to ask, the salarian responsible for their continued state of war and nihilism. Mordin had argued the ethics of dealing with the krogan so many times it had practically lost all context. "Unknown, Shepard," he said. "No advice to offer. Krogan… not animals. Not monsters. Not to be demonized for their differences. Wish to see them prosper. Wish to believe recovery possible. Krogan saved galaxy once. May again. But also destroyed the galaxy once. May again. Need data. Cannot guide you on Grunt's life. Your decision, not mine." He sighed. "Glad that it is."

Shepard was silent for many long minutes.

"So where's the nearest krogan expert?" he asked finally.

"Right here, Shepard. Specialize in krogan physiology. Had to."

Shepard's face fell. "Alright… where's the _second _nearest?"

"Tuchanka."

"A krogan?"

"Perhaps. Or former student Maelon. Also krogan specialist. Currently on Tuchanka." As that thought returned to Mordin's mind, the import of it finally hit him. His student. His old partner. His… _friend_. In the hands of the krogan. Would end poorly. Did not want to see that.

Shepard sighed again, staring down at Grunt. "Alright. Then we'll go to Tuchanka. Worst case, we leave him there."

Mordin's big eyes flitted to Shepard, and he remembered what Samara had said. Shepard considered him a friend as well. Perhaps… "Commander." Shepard met his eye. "Trip to Tuchanka wise if Grunt is to remain here. Also secondary use. Personal favor. Hate to ask."

Shepard's eyes widened in alarm. "What is it?"

"Student Maelon. May know Grunt's ailment. Not only reason I brought it up. Captured by krogan."

"When?"

"First reported today. May be dead already. Would rescue but do not wish to abandon duties. But perhaps if on Tuchanka, might take…" he calculated, "twelve hour break from work to attempt search rescue mission." He stared at Shepard for half a second. "Coincidence entirely coincidental. Will not take offense if time cannot be spared. Duty first. Research first. Understand Maelon of secondary priority. But if possible, would appreciate it."

Shepard said nothing and some part of Mordin began to panic. Foolish request. Endangered the mission. Waste of time. Maelon likely dead, Collector work critical. Should not have asked.

He took a deep breath as he gathered up his medical supplies with as much dignity as he could. "Work to do," he said, heading for the elevator. "Should do full checkup on Mister Vakarian as soon as possible. Tell me when decision made."

"Mordin," Shepard said, stopping the salarian with a hand on his shoulder. "Decision made."

_

* * *

4 years previously…_

–

Mordin did not hate things. Hate was for the small-minded, the selfish. The galaxy was a wonderful, beautiful, awful place. Misfortune was an inevitability of the fact that he was but a blip in the greater sum. Life was a game destined for failure but he was part of something massive and eternal. No matter what happened to him, no matter what he did, the universe would go on. There was no reason to despair.

So why did he feel so terrible?

After years of work, Project Firebreak had been a success. Their subterranean lab had been exhumed a month previously and recon from multiple STG cells had confirmed that the altered genophage strains had been successfully deployed. One hundred percent penetrance local to all drop points. Expected to spread to all members of the krogan species within a decade or two. The button had been pressed.

And Mordin had pressed it.

He stood on a wind-blasted ridge, staring down at the setting Tuchanka sun. The bandages over where his left horn had once been ruffled in the cold breeze and the slash across his cheek prickled incessantly.

He thought of Maelon, who had been removed from the project a month previously. Maelon, who had fought their conclusions every inch of the way. Maelon, who had very nearly sabotaged the project and would have thrown away a successful future if Mordin hadn't caught him and persuaded him from his path. Maelon, who had tried every argument to protect the krogan from further meddling.

Maelon, who would never be a professor now. Mordin had done his best to keep his rash protégé's words off the books, but salarians talked. Word would get back to his Dalatress and Maelon would never be trusted with a real position again.

Unlike Mordin, who would be offered highest honors. Who would be given a cushy job back at his old university, or perhaps within the STG as a top analyst. Who might conceivably even get a breeding contract, even over his brothers who had been groomed for it since hatching. Who might get _daughters._

Maelon. Who might have been right.

And Mordin hated being wrong.

"It's time to go, Specialist Mordin. No more samples." It was Kirrahe. Behind him, Mordin could hear the shuttle engines revving.

The words came without warning, but Mordin knew immediately they were true. "I quit."

Mordin could _hear _Kirrahe's eyes widen. "What? The project is over."

"No. Verification to be done. Validation. Further analysis. Consequences to measure. To see."

Kirrahe laughed. "Not for us, Specialist Mordin. We have done great things for our clans. We go home to our pools until we are needed again. I will be captain when I next check my messages. And you… curator? Emeritis? Who knows?"

"No," Mordin repeated, more forcefully this time. "Tell my Dalatress I relinquish my position. Whatever it may be."

Kirrahe was silent.

"Must let simulation run to completion," Mordin said. He stared at the desert. "I will stay."

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: The Salarian Dalatresses**

While asari have enthralled other species' scientists for centuries with their unusual reproductive habits, in many cases they have overshadowed the equally-unique sexual culture of the salarians. Like most sentients, salarians are dual-gendered and heterogametous, but that is where the similarities end. Salarians exhibit the strongest sexual dimorphism of any known sentient, both physically (female salarians stand almost three meters tall on average and outweigh their male counterparts by more than double) and mentally (the salarian brain differs so starkly between genders that they are often mistaken for separate species). Significant biological differences have led to a highly regimented society with strict gender roles.

Most salarian society is matriarchal, with political power distributed between the females of the species. Most salarians identify themselves by their clan (sometimes 'family' instead, especially outside of Union-held territory), each consisting of a single female (a Dalatress) and all of her descendants. Each Dalatress has complete autocratic control over her family, reinforced not only by a culture of extreme familial loyalty but by careful control of the salarians' intrinsic imprinting instinct.

Female salarians tend to mature slightly slower than their male counterparts, reaching sexual maturity at around age eleven. Once mature, however, a single female can lay more than two hundred eggs per spawn, and spawn four to six times per year. Eggs are jelly-like and shell-less and must be maintained in highly oxygenated water for three to four weeks while the embryos develop. Most Dalatresses rule their families from within specially-constructed nesting chambers – usually artificial swamps built within reinforced fortresses – and never leave the water, choosing instead to remain in contact with the eggs at all times. After a three week hatching period, tailed, limbless larvae emerge from the eggs and psychologically imprint on the first adult they see – as such, virtually every part of the nesting chamber is engineered to ensure only the Dalatress witnesses each hatching. Tall, dense reeds surround each pool, and in clans with enough eggs that the Dalatress cannot care for them herself, stunted males – less than half the size of regular males – tend the eggs from behind face-obscuring masks. Eggs and larvae are also kept healthy by colorful Aeogh fish, which eat dangerous parasites. While in modern times water conditioners and algaecides are generally sufficient for this purpose, Aeogh fish have become an integral part of salarian culture, and each clan maintains a pedigree of purebred fish at least as exhaustive as that kept for salarian children. Fish from the oldest lines can fetch spectacular prices at auction, and are highly sought after for the prestige they bring.

It is during the larval stage that salarians are first sorted into the classes that will dominate their adult lives. After imprinting, each is captured and moved to a new nursery pool, where different nutrition and growth conditions can be maintained. Female larvae are fed robust diets designed to speed their transformations and maximize their size as quickly as possible, while different male diets cause development into different morphs – minimal diets lead to the pygmy servant morphs, while rich diets lead to breeders and soldiers. The Dalatress and her servants care for the larvae in these pools for the four to six months it takes them to grow legs and emerge onto land as sala-wigs. Education is begun as early as possible, with female sala-wigs learning the art of business and politics from their mother and older sisters while males are taught their assigned trades by permanent teachers. By the time a sala-wig leaves the nesting chamber at about two years of age, they are eloquent speakers and well-equipped to begin work on their assigned profession.

Non-Dalatress females technically hold little power within a clan until they are old enough to lay eggs of their own. In most clans, lesser females are allowed to spawn a small number of their own offspring, for whose hatchings both they and the Dalatress will be present. This policy, unfortunately, can lead to instability within the clan when a female disagrees with her mother and the legions of imprinted males are being ordered in opposite paths, and sometimes leads to the formation of new clans. It is an important failsafe, however, as even though female salarians tend to outlive males by a decade or so, Dalatresses do die. When this happens, the most influential daughter will rise to take her mother's place and swiftly replace all of her brothers with her own sons to preserve the clan's subservience.

While rare salarians (even females) occasionally escape the rigid clan structure, the vast majority of all salarians live under this kind of political machine. There is no centralized salarian government – all major settlements belong to one clan or another. Decisions affecting the species as a whole are made by the Salarian Union (sometimes informally known as the Dalatressi Council), a forum in which all salarian Dalatresses commune on a regular basis. Every Dalatress, no matter how big or small her clan, is given a voice in the Union, but when matters are put to a vote each Dalatress is weighted by a computationally-determined score of political strength. Salarian analysts monitor every branch of society and high-technology computer systems assign value to increased populations, wealth, influence with alien species, and ten thousand other factors. As a matter of necessity the weight values are respected by all Dalatresses, but most spend the majority of their time fighting to increase their clan's value through legitimate means or otherwise. Similar systems are used to establish hierarchies in other parts of salarian culture, including within the STG (which, despite using rank names adopted from other cultures, ultimately uses their performance to assign clearance levels) and between lesser females inside a clan.

The only major part of salarian government not officially affiliated with one of the clans is the representative to the Citadel Council and his staff. These council representatives are chosen from birth and trained vigorously on all manner of political discourse. By tradition the representative will come from the Dalatress with the highest political score as an acknowledgement of her power, but the representatives' eggs will be hatched in full view of as many Dalatresses as can be gathered, so the representatives become imprinted to the Union in general, but none of its members individually. Lesser Citadel positions are filled in a similar manner. All salarian representatives have short tenures, however, as the death of any of the major Dalatresses will require a freshly-imprinted replacement.

Aside from the councilor, male salarians have no official power in salarian society. Male larvae are split into classes during development, ultimately separating them into servants, soldiers, academics, or breeders. In most cases only the latter category will breed – these breeders are well fed and trained in politics and business so they may be used in strategic breeding contracts and bargaining chips. Males of the three 'lesser classes' generally do not breed except in small clans or in cases of exceptional individual accomplishment.

–

* * *

**A/N: **Kabooooom, baby! It's about to get heavy!

Another belated chapter. Sorry again. Busy again. You know how it is.

Anyway, Mordin is just super awesome. There has never been a nerd character I liked more. The fact that he and Shepard can argue and he doesn't automatically LOSE the argument because Shepard is THE HERO just blew me away. I am just giddy every time I talk to this guy, I'm serious. An intellectual that still has a heart. So cool. Doesn't hurt that he's hilarious either.

So, this chapter kinda begins the loyalty missions. I will not be covering them all in depth. Some, like Mordin's, are so well done I could hardly add anything. Others, like Grunt's, are just not the sort of thing that's gonna read well. I do plan to touch on most of them, however, and so soon we will start seeing characters come back for their second or third chapter.

Samara fans, sorry she's so light so far. She will get a chapter, it just has to wait. I promise to deliver when I get there, but it'll be a while. I have some ideas, though, so hold on.

Finally, you gotto know who chapter 18 goes to. Who else (besides Legion! For the last time, it isn't Legion! Be patient!) could stand next to MORDIN?


	18. Chapter 18, Warlord, Urdnot Wrex

**Warlord – Urdnot Wrex**

* * *

–

A lone tomkah thundered across the badlands in the purple black of Tuchanka's night. One-hundred thirty-five tons of steel left a contrail of dust that stretched for miles. The machine rumbled, every bullet-riddled armor plate clattering of a life of vicious use, and the symbols on its nose boasted just what that meant to the krogan – the tank was over two thousand years old and still strong. It scrambled over dunes and wreckage with barely a shudder, the roar of its engines echoing across the continent.

Only a few hundred tomkahs still existed – most krogan clans couldn't fuel them – and it had been a long, long time since a warlord had ridden one.

–

The interior was dark except for the dim landscape sliding past the vehicle's slit windows.

"Warlord."

A crimson eye split the darkness, rolling to meet the larger krogan's gaze.

"Warlord, we're here," the driver said, crest bowed. "The Tukta scout's signal fire is just ahead."

Wrex made no sound except for the deep thrum of his lungs.

The tomkah skidded to a stop under an unremarkable patch of sky and the krogan stepped out into the night. Wrex flexed his mighty muscles and breathed deeply again, drinking the air in bellows, tasting it on his tongue. The night was a mélange of scents that tickled at the roof of his mouth. Hundreds of scents, old and new, distant and near, jostled for his attention, but Wrex picked the important threads from the tapestry with rote perfection. Smoke, varren and blood. And females. The scents were powerful and he felt a stirring in his chest. "This is the place," he agreed, hearts beating faster against his armored chest as he stared up at the great column of smoke winding into the sky.

"'course it is," insisted the tomkah's pilot, who was still carefully pivoting to fit his broad shoulders out the hatch. Urdnot Turu was a behemoth, even by krogan standards, who'd gained the favor of previous Urdnot clan leader – Urdnot Radt, Wrex's uncle – after surviving a direct hit from a turian artillery cannon. The blast had nearly shattered his body, leaving his plates split and skin permanently blackened, but eight hundred years later and he was still a stalwart servant of clan Urdnot. He'd been the first to swear loyalty to Wrex as clan leader when Radt had gone missing, and he was the first to swear loyalty to Wrex as warlord, hobbling down onto his great knees before him.

Now he stumbled down into the dust like a boulder. Wrex could hear the old krogan's body creak as misshapen bones ground against one another and he rose to his feet, none the worse for wear.

Wrex eyed the winking orange of the scout's signal fire built high on the crest of a nearby hill. Even from this distance he could see the Tukta scout's form silhouetted against it, and even make out the Tukta clan's traditional arm-weights hanging from each elbow. Wrex felt a warning growl tickle at the back of his throat.

"Be ready," he warned. "It might be a trap." Wrex had welcomed the Tukta into his protection like so many other clans, but that didn't mean he trusted them. They were responsible for protecting the hens – that someone had managed to steal two of them was a great stain on Tukta honor as it was.

Turu drew a shotgun older than Wrex was from a leather scabbard on his back, but all the same looked dubious. "Don't think he'll lie to us," he rumbled. "He knows how this looks already. He knows what would happen to Tukta clan if we thought _he _stole the hens. He wouldn't want to cross the warlord."

Laughter broke the darkness as the last of their party climbed out of the tomkah, their vast collection of spare ammo and supplies slung over his back. Wreav's laugh was as humorless as Wreav himself as he turned his beady black eyes on them. "My brother is no warlord, Splitplate," he growled. "Not to Urdnot and not to Tukta. Not to anyone."

Turu's eyes flashed in anger and he rounded on Wreav. "He _is_ your warlord and I am no splitplate!" he roared, looming over Wreav's head. "I faced the rites when you still ate from your mother's crop! I was leading armies while you still hid in Jarrod's shadow!" Turu pressed forward, puffing out his armored chest and drawing himself up as large as possible. Wreav just stared up at him, frown deepening at the mention of his long-dead father. The air seemed to bristle around him.

The two krogan stood eye to eye for a pregnant pause before Turu gave in, spitting at the ground in disgust and saving as much face as possible. Vast as he was, Turu was old and slow and he knew it – Wreav was three times the warrior he was. Wreav was sharp-eyed, ambitious and a devastating combatant.

And he _still_ hadn't sworn his loyalty to Wrex.

Wrex didn't care. He didn't give his brother's presence any pause and plodded off towards the fire where the scout awaited them. Luckily, for all of Wreav's words he knew enough to shut up and follow behind, and the three krogan lapsed into silence. There were few insects on Tuchanka and so the night was so silent the crackle of the scout's fire ahead echoed in their ears with perfect clarity.

"_Sota_, Warlord!" the scout called as Wrex neared. "I am Tukta Ato." He was not of clan Urdnot – his clan's characteristic blue/black crest and the white warpaint on his fingers made that clear enough – and yet he bowed to Wrex until his elbow-weights touched the sand. Wrex ignored it – and the satisfied _hmmph_ from Turu behind him.

"Varren?" He asked.

By way of answer Ato pointed across the terrain, into the dank shadow beneath them.

There at the base of the hill was a great smear of orange and black, littered with bloodied krogan bones and chunks of armor. The sharp smell of varren urine and the thousands of bloodied footprints in the sand made it clear enough what had happened.

"Found them a few hours ago," Ato said.

Wrex sniffed as he lumbered down to the carnage, the other krogan following behind. The blood was heavy but fresh and filled his nostrils. "All three of them?" he asked.

The scout's voice was grim. "_Parts_ of all three, Warlord. They didn't get far." Wrex sniffed again and knew the scout was right. Varren didn't leave much behind but the smell of hen blood was obvious enough. He frowned deeply. It was bad enough that he'd been called to the outskirts of his territory with a report that two Urdnot females had been abducted by an unknown raider, but to find them both dead?

It was awful news and they all knew it. Even Wreav looked upset.

Two less females. Two less mothers.

Wrex stooped, examining the bits of crushed bone and flesh littering the ground. Varren had powerful jaws, more than strong enough to split a krogan femur, and indeed flecks of bloody marrow festered in all directions. Still, the krogan skull was often too much for even the strongest alphas. It didn't take Wrex long to find one of the stolen hens' skulls, then the other's, both chewed and faceless but otherwise intact. He left them where they lay.

"Rest, young mothers," he rumbled, gently tracing a finger over one shattered eye socket. "Rest where you fell."

He spat into the sand. "Where is the raider's skull?" he asked.

Ato hesitated. "The varren dragged it off when I arrived. I did not think to kill them."

"Hours ago?"

"Yes, Warlord."

Wrex rumbled in frustration and spat again. He would have that skull. He stood and regarded the others with a fearsome look. "Find it," he growled. "All of you. I want his head or what's left of it. Cut it out of the alpha's belly if you have to."

Turu and the scout turned immediately. Varren were fast but they weren't hard to track, especially when they were dragging a few hundred pounds of armored krogan meat. The krogan wouldn't need torches or transport to catch them, even in the roughest weather. It was just a matter of getting to the skull before the varren destroyed it.

Wrex watched them go, keenly aware of his brother's shadow still behind him. Wreav stood his ground, dusky eyes narrowed in undisguised contempt. Wrex ignored it, but in the back of his mind steeled himself for the worst. He did not look at Wreav.

"Why?" Wreav finally asked.

Wrex growled. "_Now_, Wreav." He turned to regard his larger brother. "Whether you think me warlord or not, I _am _leader of clan Urdnot, and you will obey me."

Wreav snorted. "Two clans you've taken from me, Wrex," he said.

"Two clans you've lost. If you were my match they'd be yours still."

Wreav bristled visibly at that – Wrex's uncanny ability to keep coming back to life when all the galaxy thought him dead had become a very tender subject between them. "If I had been Radt's pet like you had they'd be mine either way," Wreav spat, scarred fingers balling into fists. Wrex could see the willpower his brother needed not to attack then and there, and it was considerable. Siblicide was not uncommon among the children of leaders, but Wreav's hatred of Wrex went to the next level. "Someday you'll go offworld on one of your little soul-searching trips and you won't come back, Wrex," he promised, "and I'll be back where I was."

Wrex shrugged. "Maybe. But unless you mean to kill me now, do what I say." He pointed down the trail where the other krogan had gone. "Obey your clan leader or kill me and take leadership for yourself." He stared at Wreav, flat teeth gritted and muscles tense, ready to fight. He was ready.

Wreav didn't take the bait. His posture relaxed and he turned away, feigning disinterest. "Want to know who did it?" he asked, gesturing down at the remains of the two females. "Probably your Tukta friends. Trusting them to guard the females." He grimaced. "No wonder the hens are dying."

Wrex's eyes flashed and he whirled, slamming a gloved fist down into Wreav's nose. His brother outweighed him by two hundred pounds or so but the hit was true and Wreav stumbled back with an audible _crack_. He staggered a few steps back, black eyes filled with rage.

"NOW!" Wrex bellowed. "Bring me the skull or bring me yours!"

Orange blood seeped from Wreav's cracked crest, casting a liquid curtain over the withering look he shot Wrex's way, but for once he had nothing to say.

He turned and stalked off into the darkness.

–

Wrex watched his soldiers disappear into the night.

It was only when all three were gone that Wrex let the quiet seep in around him, still breathing deeply. His nose was his way through the world, as sharp and vigilant as a turian's eyes, and in the centuries he'd lived he had trained it into a veritable weapon. A few stray particles of dust blowing in from a distant wind could tell him more about his enemies than any map.

And it told him that he was still not alone. He smirked to himself. Hen never knew when to keep herself safe.

"Come out now, Uta." he rumbled into the night, once he was sure Wreav was out of earshot. "I know you are here."

For many seconds there was no sound except hollow silence, but then a rustling and the tread of careful feet. Wrex turned.

"Varren piss, huh?" he rumbled, grinning at the wizened female that emerged from the darkness. Her crest was drab, only a hint of the recognizable Urdnot red, but what she lacked in family resemblance she made up for in shrewdness. Clan leader Uta was almost as old as Wrex, and female or not had survived many, many battles.

Uta's dark eyes narrowed as she stalked out to meet him. She sniffed loudly, lip curling in distaste. "Smells better than you," she rumbled. "Don't know why you don't mask yourself. Your enemies can smell an Urdnot from ten klicks away."

"Usually because I don't like rubbing _varren piss _all over myself."

Uta rolled her eyes. "Another fragility bought from the aliens," she sniped. "It fooled your _krannt, _didn't it?"

Wrex snorted, staring out after where his minions had gone. "Fools." He expected better from Wreav, at least – his brother had been Uta's mate before he'd returned and should have recognized her scent, buried behind urine perfume or not.

Uta dropped to a crouch next to one of the slain hen's skulls. "Your brother is a danger," she grunted, fingers caressing the toothmarks with a distant look on her face. The safety of the hens was her charge as much as Wrex's, and Wrex knew she took every loss hard.

"I know."

"You should kill him."

"I know."

"But you won't?"

Wrex paused, thinking. Many of his loyal krogan had urged him to do away with Wreav's threat to his leadership once and for all. Wreav had helmed the clan in the hundreds of years Wrex had been hunting bounties, and only starvation and obscurity had come of it – none of them wanted to see him back on the throne. It wouldn't be hard… and yet Wrex hesitated.

"Alien advice," Wrex grunted. "You don't have to kill somebody to use them. Fools like Wreav have their uses if they can be controlled."

"Like the salarians did to us?"

Wrex eyed her. "Yes."

"Not the krogan way," she pointed out.

"No," Wrex agreed. "It's not."

Uta grimaced but said nothing.

"We need Wreav for now," Wrex found himself explaining. "His _krannt_ still hold the southwest territories. If I let him die who knows where his forces go? We can't risk having another flank exposed, or more of this will happen." He flicked his head towards the carnage at their feet. "As long as the female clan is still in danger I need his support, begrudging or otherwise."

Uta was rigid. "He'll betray you," she said. "He thinks the Tukta killed these hens. Tells you as much to plant that seed in your head. Really _his _is the flank _I _worry about."

"If Wreav or his _krannt_ did this, I will see them torn to pieces," Wrex growled. "But they're not that stupid."

"Nor are the Tukta," Uta insisted.

Wrex snorted. "We'll see." He had his suspicions but he dared not voice them yet. The Tukta were savages but they were a small tribe and had everything to lose by angering Urdnot. Uta had taken a liking to their special brand of vigilance and made the whole tribe into the females' personal guards – they were certainly in position to make off with hens but they had the best access to mates already. It would have had to be a desperate male indeed, someone who couldn't secure a mate any other way.

He almost hoped it _was _the Tukta, but some part of him knew it wasn't. This was something more sinister than a luckless male stealing a mate. This was much worse. This was the opening move of a much larger game.

Wrex had seen this before. Long, long ago, before the krogan fully understood what the genophage had done to them. When his people – violent as they were already – began to turn on one another. Killed themselves faster than the turians ever could.

Wrex looked to Uta's brooding form. She was solid, unmoving as she stared off into the blackness. She had missed the worst of the post-genophage massacres but still she had survived as a krogan female for centuries. She was strong. Wrex said nothing as he came to her side. She was still as he set his chin atop her head. "Uta," he rumbled, feeling her breath rise under his dewlap. "Has there been…?" he trailed off. The silence between them grew louder as he pressed in closer, rubbing his neck against hers, marking her with his scent.

"No," Uta said, voice quiet. She did not respond to his advances, still staring away. "Not yet. My clutch is silent."

Wrex rumbled, containing his disappointment. "It will happen," he insisted. "We will try again." It was funny – before he'd left Tuchanka he had spent all his time thinking of children – had put his quad to every willing Urdnot hen he could find – and he didn't even know if any of them had ever taken. It had never mattered who the father was, as long as splitplates were being born. But now he needed to know. As long as he did not have a son to pass mantle of leadership onto, his plans were in danger. Urdnot was in danger.

And yet even he and Uta – the greatest male and the greatest female of the greatest clan – could not beat the genophage.

Sometimes Wrex wondered if the offworlders were right. Krogan really _were _primitives.

–

The three varren that Turu unloaded off of his mighty shoulders were big and healthy, stuffed full of krogan flesh, and would feed a krogan for months, but Wrex only had eyes for the skull. Wreav himself came dragging the top half of a krogan male, his chewed flesh falling out behind him, and tossed the mess in a heap at Uta and Wrex's feet.

"_Sota_, Warlord. Warlady," Ato the scout said, bowing to each of them. His arms were smeared with varren blood and a fearsome dagger dripped in his hands. "We had to kill the alpha male, but the female lives."

"Good," Wrex grunted. He toed the krogan carcass. "Cut his head off."

Ato did not blanche at the request. Krogan Tuchanka-wide considered interfering with a corpse to be a grave dishonor – bodies were left to rot where they fell as monuments to who they had been in life – and yet Ato dropped to a crouch, pried off the krogan's dented helmet, and rammed his knife behind the skull as if he were butchering any other animal. A few strong sawing strokes and the head came loose. Ato lifted it – it was barely recognizable under the blood – and held it for the others to see.

Wrex narrowed his eyes.

"Well?" Turu asked. Wrex ignored him as he took the skull from Ato. Most of the raider's face had been bitten off, but Wrex didn't need his face. He ran his fingers along the sides of the crest, feeling the shape. Most krogan clans had a distinctive crest of one kind or another – and this one was easy. A series of notches had been carved into the back ridge.

"It's not a shape I recognize," Uta admitted. "The helmet looks krogan-made, though."

"My brothers told tales of krogan who clad this way," Ato offered, tapping the helmet on the ground. "Fast warriors. Blood drinkers. From the… west."

"East," Wrex corrected. He dropped the head to the sand with a _thud_. The others stared at him. "This is Kuddru tribe," he explained. "From the flatlands. They notch their skull once for every life they take." He wiped his bloody hands on the ground, thinking.

"What are they doing here? Flatlanders haven't come here in a thousand years."

"At least," Wrex agreed, grimacing. Inside, his mind calculated. The Kuddru skull had dozens of notches – he had been a powerful warrior. The Kuddru were good runners and scouts, but if information was all they wanted they would have sent someone more disposable, not a seasoned champion. This was no advance scout – this was a test. A test to see how well Urdnot protected its females. Which meant the Kuddru were here. They were here in force. Somewhere…

Wrex sniffed the air again, searching. There was no clue, no hint to where the Kuddru might have come from, but somehow Wrex felt he could smell the enemy all the same.

"What do we do?"

Wrex rumbled. "Uta, you will tighten guard around the female camps. They'll try this again," he said, gesturing to the varren kill site. "Tukta Ato, I expect you not to leave her side unless she kills you." Ato nodded fiercely as Wrex turned to Urdnot Turu. "Turu, you will head east and find me Gatatog Uvenk. His people have dealt with the Kuddru before. Bring him to me."

"Yes, warlord."

Wrex paused, mind at work. The Gatatogs were no friends of Urdnot's, but they were a small tribe, always teetering on the edge of extinction. He knew he could buy them with the offer of hens or food. The young Gatatog clan leader could hardly turn down a chance to save his clan. Wrex almost chuckled at that. He wondered what Uta would say if she knew he was plotting how to buy another clan, like he was a volus or a salarian. She would never let him hear the end of it.

"And what should I do, oh great clan leader?" Wreav interrupted, arms crossed across his armored chest.

There _was _a reason Wrex kept his brother around, and this was it. He actually favored his brutish sibling with a grin as he stomped on the fallen skull with all his might. Flecks of flesh and bone chips scattered across the ground at Wreav's feet.

"The usual, Brother."

* * *

_Eight days later…_

___–_

Gatatog Uvenk was young but worn. His skin was sun-blackened and frosted with the salt of the deserts. His crest had not yet lost the vibrant green of his people but his eyes spoke of the difficulties of being head of his clan. Clan Gatatog had once ruled the world – back before Wrex's time, before the salarians had upset the balance – and its sons and its sons' sons had never forgotten. Now they were a fraction of their former glory, desperately holding onto their last few settlements in the ruins of the once great cities. Their homes put them right between the quarrels of the flatland and desert tribes, and right in the middle of some of the most lifeless zones on Tuchanka, but they would rather starve and bleed than give up their histories.

Wrex respected that. He truly did.

But not so early in the morning.

"Warlord!" Uvenk thundered, words cracking the pre-dawn chill. Wrex's eyes creaked open. His guards loomed in the younger battlemaster's path – ready to gut him on a moment's notice – but Wrex gave them a reluctant nod to let him pass. He had been right – ideological differences aside, Uvenk had jumped at the chance to ingratiate himself at the warlord's right hand. "Gatatog Gragas has pulled his _krannt _to the Westrun pass, Warlord," Uvenk announced, grinning widely. "They come bearing news of more Notchneck movements."

Wrex groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyelids. "More wanderers?"

Uvenk nodded, looking very much proud of himself. He had enjoyed his position at Wrex's side since the Kuddru had started trickling in, and every new flatlander that his troops caught was another reason for him to stay important. "Yes. Many trails. At least a dozen lone warriors. The Kuddru call them _Kasgar_."

Wreav snorted from where he was seated on a nearby pile of rocks, absently cutting strips of meat from the crest of his most recent Kuddru victim. "And the Urdnot call them 'vagrants'," he grunted, meat curling beneath his blade. "Not soldiers. Wandering alone, looking for prey."

Uvenk stared at him with a frown. "They are _Kasgar_. Wayfinders. The Kuddru's deadliest warriors."

Wreav just snorted again.

"No formations?" Wrex asked before Uvenk could say more. His brother did have a tendency to downplay his enemy's skills but the Kuddru weren't about to pose a threat with a dozen wanderers. They needed to know where the Kuddru _army _was, and all Uvenk and his warriors had been able to turn up were scouts and sabotuers.

Uvenk frowned, catching Wrex's implication. "The flatlanders do not move in _formations, _Warlord. If you remembered the old times you would know this."

Wrex considered killing him for that comment, then quickly decided it wasn't worth getting out of his chair for. "You channel your father's memories," he grunted. "But you are a child. Do not talk to me of history."

"At least my clan respects the krogan way."

Wrex grunted. "Yet how quick you were to join me," he said, sweeping an armored arm across his ramshackle camp. "To speak my language. To share my females." The Gatatogs were stubborn and had made it clear how little they thought of Wrex's new world order, but all the same they were on their last legs. They _needed _clan Urdnot and the protection Wrex's new allies afforded or they were at risk of drying out like their homeland.

Gatatog fumed, but bowed his head. "_Sukkga'shuk'uaelpha," _he grunted, dropping into the older tongue favored by his clan as if to remind Wrex that he still knew it. "The Gatatogs do not ignore the calls of a warlord, no matter how dense he may be. We followed Kredak, we followed Shiagur, we followed Moro."

"You followed Okeer," Wreav reminded him.

"And we will follow Wrex," Uvenk snapped. "Time will tell if he belongs on my list or yours."

"Then you'll do what I say while you're here. If not, you can take your hens and crawl back to your saltlands." Wrex stared Uvenk down. They both knew it was a lie. Wrex couldn't let Uvenk leave – at least not with his hens, anyway. For better or worse the Gatatogs had thrown their lot in with Wrex.

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to stop telling me about vagrant trails and bring me something I can use. I want to know how many Kuddru are here and where they make camp."

"The Notchnecks are stealthy, Warlord," Uvenk said. "They are quiet and soft-footed. It is not a simple matter, counting them."

"Not that soft-footed," Wreav grunted. His knife made scraping noises against his trophy. "Three dozen now. Maybe ten dozen total. Raiders. That's all."

Wrex knew it was bigger than that. He could smell it. "I want to know why they are here. I need them alive," Wrex said.

"They're here to kill you and take your hens." Uvenk insisted, "Capturing a hostage will do no good. The Kuddru can barely talk."

"They may be starving. Maybe their own hens have died. Maybe they were pushed out of their homeland. We can't kill them unless we know why." Tuchanka was – ever so slowly – falling apart and clan after clan had been driven to extinction. The flatlanders had never attempted to interfere with the bigger western tribes like Urdnot before – that they were here now spoke of some desperation. "If they will come in peace I will welcome them."

"They're _flatlanders,_" Uvenk spat. "Filthy, inbred notchneck blood-drinkers!"

"They're _krogan_," Wrex corrected. "And I'm warlord. I choose who joins my ranks, not you."

"Oorloc against them!" Uvenk roared, his composure slipping under his anger. "For thousands of years my people have fought them! We will not stand as their allies now! Never!"

Wrex's crimson eyes narrowed. "You have only _my _Oorloc now. You left your holy war behind when you joined me."

"No warlord has ever-"

"Until now," Wrex interrupted, his voice leaving no room for argument. Uvenk lapsed into silence, glaring daggers at Wrex, but the old warchief was unmoving. Okeer, Kredak, Shiagur, Moro. All had risen up to unite the krogan under their own banners, had called for total war – for Oorloc – against one group of foes or another, but no krogan warlord in memory had called for peace.

Wrex would. He was different. Smarter. He would see the Gatatog clan licking Kuddru toe-claws before he'd let traditionalists like Uvenk tell him how to run his grand army.

"Warlord."

Wrex's eyes flitted to one of his enormous guards. "What?" he snapped.

"Clan Apo is here with their offerings." The guard angled his head towards the small procession of painted krogan at the foot of the dais with an expression that said he was equally willing to let them pass and slaughter them where they stood.

Wrex rumbled in frustration. Speaking of toe-licking… "Let them pass."

"Apo is a strong clan," Uvenk muttered as the Apo delegation approached, dragging the hindquarters of a freshly-slaughtered bull ramus and tossing it in a heap in front of Wrex's throne.

Wrex just snorted.

"Victory to the Warlord Wrex!" the Apo crier shouted, his voice echoing across the Urdnot camp. Wrex stayed silent as the Apos presented a half-dozen elite warriors to join his _krannt, _each one's crest painted with bold scenes of their past conquests. Wrex made a show of looking them over as they knelt before the throne. Krogan lived with little luxury and less trade – there was nothing the Apos possessed that the Urdnots cared to have, and even if there was, to admit as much would be a gross admission of weakness. The concepts of money and all the trickery that went with it were alien notions that had damaged the krogan more than any other, giving young warriors the opportunity to fight for something other than clan and kin. On Tuchanka, though, there was only one real currency – violence. Wrex's rise from clan leader to warlord had been slow at first, but soon the other clans had started pouring in, drawn like varren to the scent of warfare.

The clans wanted _Oorloc_. They wanted Wrex to declare total war on… somebody. And they all wanted their warriors there when he did it. They all wanted some glory for themselves.

Wrex accepted the Apo battalion with a silent nod, and the bruisers obediently filed behind him to stand by until he gave them their first order. Each of them would command his own _krannt _of thirty or forty warriors, and Wrex tallied them up in his head. A few hundred more crests. Apo clan warriors would get along best with the far westerners patrolling the canyons – he would assign most of them there, and have Uta move one of the smaller female camps a little closer so they didn't feel they were being abused.

Wrex was quiet as the next procession arrived – this time tawny, sunburnt Qossa tribesplates from the southern Wall. They arrived with barrels of wine fermented from the bodies of millions of smashed wasps as well as seventy of their own elite troops. Wrex assigned them to Urdnot Wror's units.

It went on. The Shogo tribe brought Wrex an ancient sword and twelve of their famous Warmogs, clad hump to hock in heavy steel plates that made them look more machine than krogan. They went to the north battalion with the Statkas under Urdnot Kog the Pitfighter. The Ruta tribe offered him no riches but ten-thousand untrained crests. The Srug brought scouts. The Gottts brought pikeplates. Each tribe had their own forces to offer under Wrex's banner.

The krogan were a culture of war, and every clan had taken it, perfected it, and made it their own. Being an Urdnot warrior was not the same as being a Gottt warrior or a Shogo warrior. There were different rules to follow – rules about respect, about about where your _krannt _fought, where _their krannts _fought, whose units took which part of the formation, what formation shape you took. Some krogan wanted to stay near the ammo, others would shoot you in the face for suggesting they needed weapons at all. It was a dense tangle of politics and history and Wrex had to find a way to keep it from exploding.

Every warlord had had to overcome the tribes' squabbles and hold them together, but none had ever changed so much as Wrex. Urdnot Wrex, Urdnot clan leader, son of Chatha Jarroth, one of the Old Ones, The Red Crest, The Maw-killer, The Har-rag of the Battle of Kaxoun, a great and deadly being in the eyes of thousands of krogan, had returned to Tuchanka after hundreds of years among the offworld filth, and he had come with ideas. New ideas, strange ones. Ideas about _small _armies, about conserving resources, about forging lasting alliances. Ideas about trade and subterfuge and cleverness and complexity that the average krogan saw only as gibberish. He'd killed the leader of Clan Akda in a duel over whether the Akda warriors should be forced to wear shields. He'd cancelled ceremonial hunts in lieu of buying foodstuffs from offworld. He'd ordered some of the old ruins cleaned out and repurposed. He'd outlawed the hunting of athaks.

But for all the uproar he'd caused, Wrex was also winning. Not for hundreds of years had the krogan flourished so quickly and so surely. Hen casualties were down, warrior casualties were down, food was plentiful. Splitplates were being born.

There was fury and resentment on every side, and yet the offerings continued to come. Clans Statka and Hailot, Orott and Drau, Fovo and Forsan, Raik and Ravanor. A hundred soldiers here, a hundred more there. More and more flocked to join him.

Each tribe had already heard of his Kuddru problem. Each tribe thought Wrex would have them war against the flatland tribes. Destroy their ancient rivals. Crush Weyrloc and Stryloc, Quash and Kuddru, Jurdon and Sevug.

Wrex said nothing to correct them, masking his plots behind a bored face. Counting his enemies and counting his allies and deciding which were which. There were many of each and everyone wanted something.

Wrex sat in his chair and watched.

It was not until late afternoon, when the sun had already angled away from their subterranean camp, that Wrex took special notice. He smelled the visitor before he saw him, the scent of foreign incense and oil tickling at his nose. It did not take long to find the Kuddru, what with the way the crowd seemed to ripple with anger around him. Even from a distance, Wrex could see the glint of obsidian on the flatlander's hauberk, smell the hatred of every other krogan in view. They would not pounce on an unarmed envoy lest they face Wrex's wrath, but Wrex could _smell_ how much they wanted to.

Ignoring the loyalty chant of the Gottt crier, Wrex summoned his brother to his side. Wreav did not need to be told why.

"I see him," Wreav hissed. "Notchneck. Alone. Want him dead, or do you want to throw him a feast instead?"

Wrex ignored his brother's sass. "I will hear him, but he wouldn't have come alone," he pointed out.

"No," Wreav agreed. "Probably has reinforcements nearby. A dozen or so, at least. Enough so we didn't just assume he was a clanless."

"Go find them and kill _them_. Then you follow their trail back to their leader and set up outside his camp. Don't let him leave, but don't attack. Make a signal."

Wreav's frown was deep. "Shall I just hand them my weapons when I get there, _warlord?_"

Wrex's frown was deeper. "You shall walk away from this throne with your head down like a whipped varrenpup, and you shall do exactly what I have said."

"Or _what?_"

"Or I see what these new troops are good for," Wrex said, gesturing over his shoulder to the small army that was today's haul.

Wreav stared hatefully at him. "Fine," he grunted, and plodded away (head held high).

_–_

A warning growl alighted in Uvenk's throat and Wrex felt the biotics surge around the young battlemaster as the Kuddru envoy approached the throne, but Wrex was still as a statue.

The Kuddru stepped forward, his satisfied grin stretching from earhole to earhole, even under the hateful stares of two hundred of Wrex's warriors. He was young – only two notches had been cut into the upper ridge of his smooth crest – but still he stood as if he owned the world.

"_Suta'tahagga, shu Wrex. Staninsha vhag?"_ he asked, causing the obsidian rings pierced through his chin to tinkle. He spoke an old dialect, one Wrex had not used in centuries.

"Uvenk. Translate," Wrex grunted.

Uvenk's growl had not entirely left him. "He thinks you have too many crests, Warlord. He asks if you are expecting an attack."

Wrex stared at the krogan boy, face dour. "I am ready for one," he said.

"_Strela Wrex shut sekh-"_

"He understands," Wrex grunted, cutting off Uvenk's attempted translation.

The Kuddru laughed. "I do, Wrex-Who-Would-Be-Warlord. Shusha would like this answer."

Wrex's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, Wrex-Who-Would-Be-Warlord," he said. "Only what is right."

"And what is that?"

"Shusha bids me warn you," the Kuddru said, ignoring him. "You do not belong on that chair."

Wrex growled and sat forward. "Answer my question."

The Kuddru laughed. "_Sateesh, shu Wrex!_"

Wrex felt a bubble of rage swell inside of him. He'd known few flatlanders in his life and all of them were annoying. "And utter that language in my presence again and I will tear your head from your hump," he warned. "You are in my camp, you will speak my tongue."

The Kuddru grinned. "My apologies, Wrex-Who-Would-Be-Warlord."

"He _is _warlord, Notchneck" Uvenk snapped.

"He is not. He promises the clans glory but then sits on his chair and does nothing. An Urdnot is not fit to be warlord, only to cower behind and make plans like an alien. An offworld _whore_." He turned to address the soldiers behind Wrex. "All these crests! Thousands you have collected." He stared at Wrex. "All here. All waiting. For what?"

Wrex said nothing.

"Waiting for someone to call out your sacrilege, perhaps." the Kuddru guessed. "Here is my message for you, Son of the Offworlder. You surrender your throne and disband the clans. To me. Now. Let me return to Shusha with a token of your obedience… say… the Gatatog's head," he grinned at Uvenk with a gleeful glint in his eyes, "and your hens will live."

Wrex grimaced. "And if Uvenk keeps his head?"

The Kuddru looked smugger yet. "Then Alshik Shusha will kill you all and scatter Urdnot's ashes across the badlands to forever end this insult. Shusha will suffer no false warlord." He stared at Wrex, utterly unafraid. "What is your answer, Wrex-Who-Would-Be-Dead-Warlord?" he demanded. "_Shatsa odter shetsta?"_

Wrex sighed. Kids these days.

His response was swift and final. Before anyone could blink, Wrex had produced a two-foot dagger from one gauntlet and buried it to the hilt in the young Kuddru's chest. The Kuddru blinked in shock, staring down just in time to see Wrex give a quick biotic thrust, sinking the blade through armor and scaly hide alike to pierce the hearts.

The Kuddru hit the dust in a fountain of orange blood.

Wrex slumped back into his throne and propped his feet up on the fallen krogan's back.

He looked to the next procession of warriors waiting for an audience. "Next."

* * *

_Four days later…_

___–_

Somehow watching the black speck that was the Normandy descend through Tuchanka's blue-white sky made Wrex feel every one of his many, many years. There was nothing like the new to remind you how old you were.

And Wrex was one of the old ones.

To a krogan, that meant something. No one knew how long it took a krogan to die of old age because no krogan had ever shown the patience for it to catch up. It was in swiftness and violence that a true krogan died. Not in his bed, with a withered hump. But for every thousand young splitplates killed in their first battle, there was a great warrior whose death could take millennia to find him. Before Wrex was Urdnot he was just Wrex, and he'd known krogan who made asari matriarchs look like hatchlings, warriors so great they'd kept their clans for thousands of years on end. Every year they survived they grew more famous, more respected. More feared. It did not matter your clan – the old ones were known planet-wide.

But his planet had been lifted up and the old ones had started dying. It was no long, slow death either – they died like krogan. Moro had met the wrong end of a turian trireme tank on his base on Veles. Kredak had a spaceship dropped on him. Jadra had soaked up an armory's worth of ammo before finally stilling.

Jarrod's hearts had been speared by his own son.

None had let go of their clans easily, but one by one Wrex had watched the old ones, the krogan whose memories stretched back not just one war but ten, those who remembered a time _before_ the genophage, meet their ends. Now he was one of the last still standing and the old memories were in danger.

Wrex couldn't remember when that had first stopped bothering him.

But he remembered when it had started bothering him again.

* * *

_Two years previously…_

___–_

One of the old ones had fallen into the void (a krogan death) at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.

Twenty-nine. Not twenty-nine hundred. Just twenty-nine.

And Wrex _cared._

Wrex snorted that thought away like a biting fly as he stepped down into the water. Virmire's idyllic waters had already risen to steep the site of the blast in fresh beauty – the jungle was well into reclaiming the great empty silhouette that was once Saren's lab and the ash had been all but swept away by crystal clear water.

None of the beauty reached Wrex behind the storm of his thoughts. He _cared._ He _cared_. It felt almost foreign. Why did he care _now? _Shepard was not one of the old ones. Wrex had scabs older than him. He was a tiny, mewling offworlder and Wrex could have pulped his skull in one great fist. He'd wanted to a dozen times when the man had come pestering him about war stories. Almost done it when they got to talking about the genophage.

And yet Shepard was a warlord. The first person to inspire anything in Wrex in a long, long time. He'd brought Wrex great foes to fight, not merchants or mercs but rachni and Spectres and a thresher maw! He'd fought by Wrex's side, killed with him, and for him.

Wrex had had a _krannt _once, in his brothers. Shepard had been his second. Young and fragile or not, Shepard had mattered. Had changed him. Had brought him _here._

And now Shepard might be dead. And it ate at Wrex's innards.

He plodded on towards the looming remains of the lab.

* * *

_Presently…_

___–_

Aliens would never be welcome on Tuchanka. The krogan saw no use in the asari's much-vaunted galactic melting pot. No need to see what a volus who'd never known hunger thought was art. No wish for turian guns when krogan guns lasted ten times longer. The only thing outsiders had ever brought to Tuchanka was the genophage, and it was killing them. Wrex's people wanted nothing to do with the rest of the galaxy, unless it involved a great deal of bloodshed.

So their offense at having a human among them – bedding in their own camp, nonetheless – made the night stink with anger. A thousand bull krogan could produce quite a musk when they felt threatened, and there was nothing like being told they couldn't butcher Wrex's new guest to get them there.

Wrex was still in the darkness, but he did not sleep. His chin still rested on the cool stone armrest of his throne. Behind him, a few dozen of his guard slumbered quietly from their posts, their backs straight and their weapons clenched in their hands. Uvenk had returned to the Gatatog camp to fume about Wrex's newest offense and Wreav had yet to send word from the field. Wrex was alone.

He sniffed a deep lungful of air, tasting the complicated mélange until he found the thread he wanted. Behind the territorial stench of angry krogan and the smell of musty rot and waste that clung to their camps like a plague, Wrex could pick out the undeniable twinge of mammal.

He snorted and rose from his throne.

_–_

He found Shepard atop one of the resting tomkahs, the human hard at work plotting the next day's scouting route on a mobile haptic console. The orange light of a holographic map of the canyon-scarred surface of Tuchanka cast long shadows on the man's face, glistening against the thin layer of alien sweat that had drawn Wrex here so surely.

Wrex made water over the edge of the tomkah before plodding up to sit next to Shepard.

"Shepard."

Shepard gave him a quick nod. "Wrex."

They were quiet after that, Shepard still tapping while Wrex stared out over the vast expanse of the Urdnot camp. Thousands of cookfires twinkled in the darkness, dwarfed next to the enormous alchite signal fire that dominated the center of the assembled army and filled the air with a sharp odor. The smoke column could be seen from twenty kilometers and smelled from a hundred.

It made a boastful statement to those neighbor tribes that Wrex had yet to absorb. _Here we are_, it said. _Defeat us or be pushed aside._

Of course, Shepard's incursions into enemy territory had spoken even louder – Wrex had painted a stripe of his tribe's alchite on Shepard's pauldron, marking his scent as Urdnot for all to smell. The warchieftains Weyrloc Guld and Stryloc Ulam could hardly ignore a human intruder flying the Urdnot scent in their lands for long.

"You haven't found your salarian," Wrex accused, breaking the silence.

Shepard's little mouth downturned. "Not yet," he admitted. "It's been slow. I don't think your neighbors like me much." Wrex's scouts had told him about how they'd spent half their time holed up and driving off the newest ambush or maneuvering the tomkahs around the Stryloc barriers. Shepard sighed. "Or your scouts, to be honest."

"They don't," Wrex agreed. "They want you gone. Kog Pitfighter told me he will tear your tongue out if you ask him any more questions." Wrex counted out on his fingers, watching Shepard bristle. "Urdnot Salat tried to lose you in the canyons today. Urdnot Dragu and Tarbat are planning to push you off a cliff tomorrow. Sada swore vengeance f-"

"Urdnot Sada needs to calm down," Shepard interrupted, looking indignant. "I saved his _life._"

Wrex chuckled. "He didn't see it that way. You should have let the Weyrlocs finish him."

"Not how I do things," Shepard insisted. "I'm not going to let him throw his life away if I don't have to."

"Sada is a foolhardy splitplate. The krogan would say his death strengthens the tribe."

"Well _I _don't say that," Shepard said. He looked up at Wrex. "And neither do you."

Wrex laughed at the human's gall, to tell a warlord what he believed. It was a refreshing change of pace from all the asskissing he'd endured of late. "It's good to see you again, Shepard."

Shepard grinned up at the krogan. "Glad _somebody_ missed me while I was gone."

Wrex creaked an eyebrow.

Shepard sighed dramatically. "Dead for two years, remember?"

Wrex chuckled, making his dewlap waggle. "Heh. Two years," he snorted. "I've eaten meals that took longer than that to digest." He looked away, suddenly sobered. "I've been alive a long, long time, Shepard," he said. It seemed so long, now, sitting here next to a fellow warrior just three decades old.

"How long?"

Wrex paused. "I don't remember anymore," he admitted after a moment. "You lose track of time when you live in space as long as I did." He paused again, calculating. "More than a thousand years. Less than two thousand." He looked down at Shepard and tried to see him as the infant he was. "I was a splitplate when the genophage was unleashed. I was old enough to be a warrior when I left my father's clan. I wasn't old enough to be a clan leader when my uncle died and I became one."

Shepard nodded his understanding. "So you left Tuchanka for a few centuries to be a merc, and now you're a clan leader again."

Wrex snorted. "Never stopped being one, Shepard," he said. "Besides, clan leaders lead _one _clan. I know you're just a human, but I know you can count better than that." He gestured with his chin out at the vast assemblage of warriors spread out before them, at the constellations of campfires speckling the terrain. It was too dark for Shepard to see, but Wrex's keen vision could make out the craggy forms of fifty thousand sleeping krogan. "Those krogan don't follow a clan leader, Shepard. They follow a _warlord_."

Shepard nodded, staring out at the krogan. His face was grim. Perhaps he feared what fifty thousand krogan could do. "Of course, the last time this many krogan gathered," he said eventually, "the turians came in and killed them all."

Wrex nodded. He remembered that day. "Warlord Moro. Battle of the Veles."

"And the time before that," Shepard said.

"Shiagur, killed on Canrum. Before that was Kodus, dead on Tatria. Before that was Okeer."

"Dead on Korlus," Shepard added, voice quiet. "It's a dangerous cycle, Wrex. But I guess the krogan aren't used to having a warlord more interested in survival than war."

Wrex was quiet for a long time. Shepard was, of course, right. Every warlord before him had led his or her followers to a grisly demise in the name of oorloc. Had instigated yet another war the krogan could no longer afford. Had pushed their species that much closer to extinction. Had chosen to take honor of battle – the krogan way – over the krogan as a species. They were monsters, however much he respected them.

But was he any different?

Wrex grunted. "I'm not doing this for survival."

Shepard looked at him. "Why n-"

"They were clones, weren't they?" Wrex interrupted. "On Virmire." He turned his crimson eyes to Shepard, who seemed to wilt a little at the mention of the planet's name. "Saren didn't have a cure, he was just growing krogan in vials."

"I don't know for sure," Shepard said eventually, "but yes. That's what the STG teams concluded in the Council report."

Wrex nodded, remembering the weeks he'd spent picking through Saren's ruined labs, looking for something – _anything –_ that could help him before giving it up for a lost cause. He had long ago given up that hope, but to hear it confirmed was something else. "And yet it was the closest thing to a cure I've ever seen," he said, voice haunted. He paused and the darkness filled between them. "And I let you destroy it. I helped." The heinousness of his actions felt heavy on his hearts. He could have torn Shepard's team to pieces – even Williams, who'd thought herself so clever sneaking up behind him, as if he could be felled so easily. He could have broken into Saren's base by himself. Kidnapped the krogan doctor and his work and been back on Tuchanka before anyone was any the wiser. He was a _battlemaster_. He was ten times the warrior anyone on that planet would ever be.

"It was the onl-"

"And I'd do it again," Wrex interrupted, almost roaring. "Because the krogan are not clones. And we are not slaves. And we are not aliens. We are krogan." He sighed, listening to his bellows echo back at him. "There is no cure, and there never will be. We'll survive the genophage either way. I'm trying to make sure we're still krogan when we get there."

Shepard was quiet for a moment. "And what does that mean?"

Wrex did not answer.

Thankfully, Shepard did not press the point. "I need another favor, Wrex," he admitted after enough time had passed. Wrex said nothing, and Shepard called his computer display up again. The little holographic map of the continent was covered in notes of camps Shepard and the scouts had already checked. "I need more time."

"I can give you more scouts," Wrex said. "But I need you off my planet before you start a new war with Guld."

"No. I need time, and I need Mordin," Shepard insisted, and Wrex fell silent. "My salarian. This was his mission, and he will know how to read the clues."

Wrex stared darkly at Shepard. "Salarians should not be on Tuchanka," he said.

"I know. That's why I came alone at first. I was trying to do it with as little trouble as I could. But I can't find him, Wrex. Not fast enough. He'll be dead."

"He's dead already."

"Then I want his corpse. Please, Wrex."

Wrex fell silent again, brooding. Part of him wanted to say no. To _shout_ no, to kick Shepard off the tomkah for even suggesting such a thing. Tuchanka was _his_ planet. Not the salarians'. Never again.

He stared at Shepard. "You are my _krannt_," he said. "I would do this for you." He looked away. "But I must not. You have already stirred up the Weyrlocs and given those who call me an alien sympathizer more reason to hate me." Wrex was silent for a moment. "Humans are not loved, but sparing a salarian would be seen as weakness. My rivals would try to topple me all at once. I have enough problems with flatlanders on my borders, I don't need a civil war too." He grimaced just imagining the fit Uvenk would have – and he wouldn't be alone. Wreav might hunt down Shepard just to spite his brother. He wouldn't be alone either.

Shepard deflated a bit. "We'll be discrete. We'll stay away from your camps as much as possible."

"It won't help," Wrex said. "We can smell aliens for many leagues. _Someone_ will find him and kill you both. Or force me to." He looked down at Shepard. "I like you, Shepard. I'd hate to have to tear your arms off." _But I will if I have to_.

Shepard said nothing. Wrex might have guessed he would bring up the Reapers (like he was so fond of doing), or maybe trying to guilt him with reminders of how they'd found his grandfather's armor, but he stayed silent. He would not press further, he would let Wrex think of these arguments himself. The manipulative bastard.

Wrex sighed. Shepard _had _given him his grandfather's armor. He winced as a way popped into his head. He didn't like it… but he owed it to Shepard.

"Krogan diplomacy is simpler than alien diplomacy," Wrex said eventually. "No Udinas here. But we do treat with one another. For a price."

Shepard looked at him hopefully. "What price?"

"Hens. Hostages."

"What?"

"That's the deal. I take my enemy's mate hostage, he will not dare betray me. If he does, she is mine."

"Commander Shepard's not hostage enough?"

Wrex frowned and shook his head. "Most of these krogan have never been offworld. Your big name means nothing here. But they know how valuable a female can be. The salarian's mate," he repeated. "Bring her to me. You get your salarian on and off my planet without causing trouble, you get her back. If not, my warriors kill her and you and your crew and eat the bodies."

Shepard paused, thinking. "Mordin's mate, huh? Mordin doesn't have a mate."

Wrex shrugged. "Most of these krogan have _never _been offworld," he repeated. "Make something up."

Shepard grinned.

_–_

Wrex had been offworld a long, long time, to the point where he could usually tell the difference between a turian and a human at a glance. Smelling the difference, though, was easy – turians smelled like copper and steel, humans smelled like sweaty, matted fur. Batarians like rotting fruit, drell like salt, asari like watery ryncol, vorcha like rot and death. Every race had their own stench. So to him, that Ms. Miranda Lawson was _not_, in fact, a salarian dalatrass was as plain as day.

But his fellow krogan were not so informed.

"Alas!" the salarian doctor laid it on thick, ignoring the malicious stares of a dozen krogan itching to kill him. "That my sweet, sweet love must remain here with these beasts!" His arms wheeled and gesticulated as he buried his amphibian face in the cleft of Miranda's neck. "The vitreous humors of her eyes are like two spheres of optically-transmissive proteinaceous structural fluid! Her skin, a flawless layer of stacked epithelial cells imbedded with neuroreceptors!"

Miranda turned a hue of red that had nothing to do with the sunlight and stared daggers at a nonchalant Shepard.

"Your mate is forfeit, salarian," Wrex rumbled in a warlord's voice.

"Won't hurt her?" Mordin pleaded, eyes wide and desperate. "Will treat her like royalty, yes? She is my dalatrass. Inspires much poetic imagery. Sun. Stars. Post-collapse neutron stars. Other celestial bodies. Perhaps comets... Indeed, care for her beyond use as receptacle for genetic propagation. Soul-mates! Inherently flawed notion of fate demands we be together!"

The krogan chuckled at Mordin's performance. The doctor was going above and beyond – most krogan didn't know one offworlder for another, and hardly benefited from Mordin's thespian background, though Wrex supposed Mordin might be exaggerating his body language for clarity's sake. He didn't have the benefit of expressing himself with scent glands.

"I think they get it, Mordin," Shepard said, stepping in and resting a hand on the alien's shoulder. "That's the trade. You give up your mate, they don't touch you."

"And gravid! Very gravid!" Mordin continued, wailing as he was led away. "Oviducts are healthy, eggs full to bursting with nutritious yolk! Would have borne me a vast brood of strong salarwigs!"

_That _did it, and the remaining krogan were so distracted with thoughts of all the delicious salarian eggs Miranda would lay for them that they hardly noticed Mordin's façade toggle off in an instant as he and Shepard loaded into a waiting tomkah with Wrex's chief scout. Pausing in the vehicle's hatch, Shepard sent a last significant glance Wrex's way, catching the warlord's eye.

Wrex rolled his eyes. Yeah, yeah, he'd keep her safe.

The hatch closed and the tomkah roared to life.

"I'm going to kill them," Miranda said, glowering as the tomkah trundled off into the Weyrloc territories.

Wrex just snorted. "Doubt it." He turned to meet her glare. She was a little thing. Tall for a human hen, surely, but still dwarfed by the krogan that surrounded her with their hungry eyes. Still, she stood ramrod straight, ignoring her audience and staring unblinking back at Wrex. For all her sweat and pinkening skin and tiny, unarmored body, she was unafraid.

"Are you going to tell this monster to stop breathing on me or not?" she demanded, the part of her mane not tied up behind her head still flitting in the rhythmic inhalations of the Statka battlemaster looming behind her.

Wrex angled his gaze to look at her and grinned. "You stink, human," he said, quietly enjoying the way her hackles rose. "Statka Redig is worried you'll give away our position." All the same, he flicked his chin at Redig and the immense krogan lumbered off, still pumping his lungs in preparation for the battle ahead.

Miranda's face twisted in anger. "I do _not _st-"

"Sweat," Wrex interrupted, snorting. "You stink of mammal." He shook his head. "Waste of water and a powerful scent. " His nose wrinkled in distaste – far as he was concerned, the stench was the most memorable thing humans brought to the galaxy.

Miranda was quiet as Wrex stooped to grab a fistful of fine dust, but shouted in surprise when he tossed it at her to a chorus of laughter from the other krogan. The dirt clung to her sweaty skin, soiling her previously-pristine white bodysuit.

"The dirt will mask the scent. Roll around in it," Wrex commanded, ignoring her protests.

Miranda glowered at him, but obligingly stooped to her knees and scooped up a handful of orange dust.

"Dirt is better than the alternatives," Grunt supplied, lumbering up to join them.

Miranda looked up. "Thanks for nothing back there, by the way."

Grunt just shrugged. "You're Shepard's enemy. If you were mine you would be dead but he is merciful. And dirt is better than varren piss. Or krogan. Okeer once had his troops scrub with bull athak manure to surprise the Kor tribe's warriors."

Miranda scowled, rubbing the dirt down the length of her arm, leaving muddy streaks. "Not so dismissive of Okeer's imprints now that you need them, are you?" Miranda asked, working a little faster as she brushed soil across her legs. She was right – in just a few short days, Grunt had set himself up as an expert on krogan culture. The encyclopedia Okeer had written into his head covered the rituals and tactics of dozens of tribes – far and away more than most krogan these days remembered. The tankborn had wasted no time in abusing that fact either, and had already managed to correct Uvenk's pronunciation of an old battle prayer the previous night. That Uvenk had not _immediately _attacked Grunt continued to amaze Wrex.

"Not so perfect when you're covered in dirt and everyone thinks you smell, are you?" Grunt fired back.

"Perfect?" Wrex rumbled, staring dubiously at Miranda's squishy chest humps. A strange way to store fat, as far as he was concerned. It was poorly armored, no muscle or skin to protect it. He shrugged. Perhaps humans liked squish.

"She is perfection for her species, Warlord," Grunt said, grinning plate to plate. He waved a stumpy hand towards her. "Genetically engineered. That is as good as they get, she claims."

A snort from behind Wrex announced Uvenk's arrival. "Strong words, Tankborn," he spat, crossing his arms as his _krannt_ filed up behind him. They stared at Grunt, Wrex, and Miranda with equal stares of contempt, as if they could not decide which of the three to hate most. "I do not know what is worse, that Warlord Wrex sullies his war with a clanless _kretak_ like you or an offworlder like him."

"_Her_," Grunt corrected. "This is a _female_ hu-err… salarian."

Miranda had the good sense not to disagree. She stood with surprising grace and poise, considering she was covered in dirt, and met Uvenk's eyes. "I am the Warlord's hostage," she said, staring without flinching at a beast six times her size. "The property of a _krannt_mate of one among Wrex's _krannt. _You will treat me with the respect you would give the Warlord or I will see your skull on my wall, understood?" Wrex had been around humans enough to know how hard it was for her to pretend Shepard or Mordin owned her – humans _did _hold their independence mightily dear to them – but Miranda gave no indication of unease. She might as well have been krogan.

Uvenk did not allow himself to shrink under Miranda's withering glare, but Wrex could smell the tell-tale musk of anger roiling off of him. The humaness's threat had hit home. Uvenk turned to regard Wrex instead, Miranda's eyes following him without mercy. "She's not even krogan," Uvenk complained. "Even if the aliens betray you, she could not bear sons for us. She is worthless."

"Eggs…" one of the nearby krogan rumbled, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"Not to them," Wrex said, turning. He cast one final look at Miranda. "And if it comes to that, we'll just eat her."

A flicker of alarm crossed Miranda's face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared and she fell into step behind Wrex as he plodded away through his troops, leaving Grunt and Uvenk to catch up behind them.

_–_

Wrex did not give a call to battle. There was no resounding blast of drums or bellow of rage – he had no interest in riling the entire army up if he could help it. Instead, he just walked, picking his way east out of the massive warrior camp that had assembled around him since news had spread he would move against the Kuddru.

Wrex led and the krogan followed. A few at first, then more and more as each group of warriors rallied. Ripples carried through the sea of warriors as Wrex led the tide. There were blue-painted Akras, the fingers on their right hands ritually shortened, ancient Holtat warriors that glittered with so many piercings they looked to be made of gold. The Tuktas clapped their elbow-weights as they fanned out ahead of the war party, the Statkas grunted in rhythm, the Olmets had lit their soul-torches.

All of the troops Wrex had been promised joined him, until the valley seemed to shake with their footsteps. Others joined without invitation, clinging to the rear of the column like flotsam, hoping for some chance at glory beside the great horde. It was a vast mass of krogan – a thousand strong at least – and stank with violent anticipation. Trailing behind came great packs of wild varren, eager for the bloodshed that krogan armies usually left in their wake.

Bloodlust was in the air. The krogan were on the move.

_–_

It was nightfall, and the krogan were still on the move. The horde had spread out under the hot Tuchanka sun, a thousand pairs of eyes seeking any sign of the Kuddru, a thousand noses smelling for Wreav's signal fire.

The terrain was harsh, even by krogan standards. If there was one thing the Kuddru had going for them, it was a fondness for the extremes. Wreav had tracked their envoys' guards back to the Bantu Valleys, a rugged range of rocky canyons and nuclear glass left behind from the civil wars thousands of years before. Obsidian-black rock cut fingers and split boots under every other step, while hungry alracchs circled overhead, patient for a warrior to miss a handhold and fall to his death. That on top of the way Aralakh baked the ground until the heatwaves were almost opaque and how even the glare alone was painful, and it was a wonder any krogan had volunteered to come with Wrex at all – indeed, most of the stragglers (and some of the invited warriors as well) had already turned back rather than risk a fatal journey.

And this, more than anything else, was what impressed Wrex with his charges. Grunt – soon, no doubt, to be _Urdnot _Grunt – bore the difficulty with loud fury but even louder determination. He was an offworlder, a krogan who'd spent his short life fighting on ships or hangars (or Kredak forbid _apartment buildings_) with air conditioning and smooth metal floors, and his virgin hide spoke to his inexperience. With every new cut the desert opened in him, however, every drop of orange blood he left on the trail, Wrex saw the true krogan within emerging. The shaman would want to test Grunt's strength at the keystone, no doubt, but Wrex would have him tested and tried before he even got the chance. He would fight _krogan _tomorrow, not mere mercenaries or robot soldiers, and he would learn or he would die.

Grunt looked about ready to do the latter by the time Wrex finally gave his _krannt _the call to halt and pitch their camp in the darkness. The daytime's fierce warmth still clung over their backs like halos as the krogan ground to a stop, and none looked happier to rest than the young tankborn, whose breath reeked of blood. Still, Wrex noted with some pride that Grunt did not fall but stayed on his feet. Okeer had taught him well.

"Grunt," Wrex grunted.

"Warlord."

Wrex stared down off the cliffside into the darkness. Somewhere in the tangle of canyons below them the Kuddru made their camp, and somewhere beyond that his brother would be arranging his own troops. It was just a matter of catching the Kuddru between them – providing they could be _found_. "You will accompany Turu's _krannt _and the Statkas north along our left flanks," he rumbled. "Patrol wide. Look for the canyon mouths, see if you can find the trails they've been taking. I want forces ready to tighten around the Kuddru tomorrow."

"Warlord," Grunt repeated, bottling his exhaustion under Wrex's challenging glare. He would not dare complain, even if it killed him, and was silent as he joined Turu and continued down the trail. The sound of splitting stone followed them until the night swallowed all trace of their presence.

"Uvenk's forces will take the right flanks," Wrex finished. "The rest of you ready yourselves for battle."

"Warlord," Uvenk said, grunting as he gestured his _krannt _down the path they'd come. The Gatatogs were used to the worst kinds of terrain – they shared that strength with their Kuddru rivals – and none looked at all worse for wear for the day's journey.

Wrex settled, feeling his bones settle in their sockets, and stared out at the night. The moons were gone tonight, and even his keen vision could see little. Still, he could feel the rumble of his troops' might through the stone, feel the great movement of meat and armor all around him, and he could not help but think of the ancient times, when there were dozens of warlords at any one time, and each had tens of thousands of soldiers at his command. Now the krogan were a mere shadow of their former selves, but to feel so much strength – it almost gave him hope.

"I thought… the point of this…" Miranda's voice came panting from behind him, "was not to kill me unless Shepard betrayed you." She flopped to the rocky ground, uncaring, for once, about proper posture or grace. Her thick hair was plastered to her muddy back and her previously-snowy skin pink and cracked. Her hands were wrapped tightly in borrowed linen that still reeked of the iron in her bloodied palms.

Wrex chuffed. "Krogan life is hard," he said, flexing his toes within his armored boots. "You did well for a human." Miranda seemed to straighten up a bit at his compliment. Her fingers went to work combing the dirt out of her hair. "You have some strength in you," Wrex continued, "even if you smell like a medlab."

Miranda scoffed in disbelief. "I smell like sweat, I smell like a mammal, I smell like a medlab. Is there anything I _don't _smell like to you krogan?"

"You smell like an offworlder," Wrex clarified, ignoring her jibe. "I don't know a perfect human from any other but you smell like a tankborn. Like you were built."

"I _was _built. And good thing I was or I'd probably have died of heatstroke by now." She rubbed at her face, leaving grimy streaks behind. "I did not sign up to get tangled in a krogan Oorloc."

Wrex sighed. "No Oorloc," he said. He returned his gaze back over the cliff side. "This isn't war. This is just defending our borders. Protecting our hens. " He paused. "Tomorrow we will push the Kuddru on all sides. They will be many but they will be hungry and exhausted and they will not stop us."

"And then what? Kill the chieftain and his brood, steal the females and scatter the males to spread the tale back to their homeland?" Miranda asked, voice mocking.

Wrex ignored her.

"If this is how krogan war I'm amazed you've lasted as long as you have," she added.

Wrex's eyes swiveled down to Miranda's face. "No human has seen real war. This is how it is done. Humans and turians play soldier. Krogan_ war_."

"Without strategizing or scouting or targeting supply lines or developing technologies? Without saving your strength for _real _fights?" Miranda fingered a rifle one of the krogan had leaned against a nearby rock, an ancient slugthrower that used real bullets and real ammo. "Just marching into the meat grinder with _these?_ No wonder you're dying out."

Wrex didn't answer for some time. His mind turned over Miranda's accusation in the slow crushing pace that was its way. She was a human, an arrogant, angry little blip in the universe. She did not understand the krogan. "I saw you at Shepard's funeral," he accused eventually. Miranda did not look at him, but he didn't need confirmation – he remembered that day like it had been yesterday. The crunch of Shepard's steel coffin under his foot, the aghast faces among the crowd, and one woman in the back row with a spine of iron and dry eyes. "In disguise with a sand mane on," he said, "As one of the Alliance officers. Corporal Walker, they said."

"I was there."

"For Cerberus," Wrex said, nodding his understanding. "Making your schemes. " Wrex glared at her. "There are no krogan in Cerberus," he said. "We don't think that way." Miranda said nothing, and he continued. "No krogan would stand and pretend Shepard was dead when he wasn't. Deceit and trickery are the worst ways for a warrior to live and they are the worst ways for a warrior to die. True life and death comes on the strength of your back and nothing else."

"The genophage had nothing to do with the strength of your back," Miranda pointed out. "It had everything to do with how your species chose to conduct itself. If you push on the galaxy again, it will push back again, and if you don't start scheming it will end the same way."

Wrex quieted, thinking. "It didn't end, human," he said finally. "We are still here."

"A few percent of you are, with only one warlord who is too cautious to declare war."

"We are still here," Wrex repeated. "I know my enemies. And when they show, my army will march over them like a tide of blood or die trying." He looked at her. "And tomorrow will be the same. No tricks. We will march upon the Kuddru and we will destroy or be destroyed."

She hesitated, looking up at him as he walked to the nearest rocky outcropping that he could lean against to sleep without falling in the night. "I have a use for your army," she said.

Wrex chuckled. "Of course you do, human," he said, engaging the locks on his armor and closing his eyes. "Now sleep."

_–_

The morning breeze had hung with the sharp scent of burning alchite oil – Wreav's signal fire – and the krogan converged. Normally krogan at war would burn decoy alchite fires to confuse their enemies' senses, but the Kuddru had taken no such precaution and the scent drew Wrex's forces like blood in the water. Even then, it might not have been necessary – the weather was in Wrex's favor, the skies clear and still, and the billowing smoke from Wreav's fire could be seen from many kilometers away, even over the glare of the sun on the desert's glassy surface. The Kuddru had set themselves up in one of the wider, deeper valleys, open and obvious but deathly hot and bright. From a distance the mirages made the whole valley look drowned in mercury. Wrex's armies closed the noose nonetheless, stepping into the haze without fear.

It was noon when the first shots rang out.

Wrex kept walking, ignoring the sound of Miranda's shield flickering to life over the distant echo of shotgun blasts. "I wouldn't waste it," he rumbled. "No waste in the desert."

Miranda tried to blow an escaped lock of hair off her face, but the sweat had plastered it to her skin. She frowned. "Hardly a waste if I'm being shot at."

Wrex shrugged. "Not yet," he said, watching the way the heat waves rippled around them. The air twisted for miles in every direction around them, until even the horizon was hard to place. "They can't see us any better than we can see them. They're stotting. Shooting the air, the ground. Maybe each other. Letting us know they're ready for us."

"No waste in the desert," Miranda echoed.

Wrex shook his head. "Tuchanka has one natural resource left, human, and that's ammo." He fired his own shotgun into the ground with an ear-splitting boom that rang across the deserts for many seconds. "Keep your shield off," he said. "I'll tell you when you need it."

Miranda left it on and fell in behind him as he followed the sounds of the gunfire into the murk.

_–_

It took them two hours before they saw the first of the Kuddru, although it might have been an eternity for all they could tell – each scrap of desert looked the same as the last through the shimmering air and the glow of the ground. To make matters worse a sharp wind had picked up, shrouding the desert in an opaque cloud of orange dust. Wrex's _krannt _had long since disappeared, and the only sign that there were krogan at all – aside from the continued thunder of the guns – were dark shapes hiding in the mirages in all directions.

But one of those dark shapes had a foreign smell to it and Wrex stopped so suddenly that Miranda nearly stumbled into him. She had her pistol drawn and was instantly on alert, staring into the glowing desert. Wrex frowned at the silence.

There was the sound of metal scraping on gravel.

"Shields," Wrex said, flicking his generator on with a deep _throp_, "now."

The shape came surging out of the haze as a howling krogan, a wall of meat and armor falling towards them like a rockslide. The Kuddru berserker was eight feet tall and covered in scavenged metal plates decorated with bold tales of his exploits. Dozens and dozens of slashes in his crest announced his prowess in battle.

Wrex gave a bellow and charged to meet him, and the two krogan collided with a terrific crack. Rock and sand scattered in all directions as the two reptiles scrambled for purchase. Wrex latched onto his opponent's arms and twisted with all the strength he could muster, planting his feet in the ground and ignoring the furious kicks the Kuddru rained down on his knees and ankles. The Kuddru was trying to break his legs and each blow sent bolts of pain lancing up Wrex's side, but he held strong, shifting his stance only when he had to and continuing to press with all his strength.

The Kuddru's agonized roars echoed in Wrex's ears as he finally heard a _snap_ and felt his opponent's steel gauntlet split like firewood, the forearm twisting with it. The Kuddru stumbled and fell to the ground and Wrex loosed his grip. The Kuddru's shotgun sent burning hot pellets pinging through Wrex's shields, but even the feeling of flecks of shrapnel smoldering constellations into his skin ebbed away in a rush.

Bloodsong thundered into Wrex's head as he dove atop the fallen krogan headfirst, his surroundings melting away to be replaced with red hot rage. Blood fountained from a dozen holes in his chest but he felt nothing anymore, and shattered the Kuddru's gun with a blow. He produced a hidden knife and slammed it into his opponent's neck so deep it held fast. Still the Kuddru fought, planting his own knife in the roof of Wrex's mouth.

Wrex bit down, hard. Teeth broke and the knifeblade sank, filling his mouth with the taste of blood and polished steel, but the satisfying crunch of bone and armor proved he'd broken the Kuddru's other arm.

"Kovas!" the Kuddru challenged, hand still digging the blade as deeply into Wrex's throat as he could.

Wrex slammed a free hand down on the Kuddru's neck and yanked his mouth free, snarling as he spat the knife and a mouthful of blood onto the hot sand. "A good death," he agreed, swinging another blow down on the Kuddru's thrashing forearm. The desert warrior gave him a nod.

Wrex stared his foe in the eye as he jammed his own shotgun into the back of his throat and pulled the trigger. There was a spurt of thick blood and bone chips and the Kuddru fell slack.

The world seeped back into reality, the sounds of gunfire and bellowing krogan swimming in Wrex's ears, as he kneeled in the carnage, lungs heaving like bellows and blood oozing from a dozen wounds. His head pounded with the fury of battle but his limbs felt like stone. He did not even react when Miranda stepped into his field of view, face grim as she fired at the nearest Kuddru. Her aim was surgically perfect, each stanza of shots grouping square on her enemies' eyes, virtually the only soft part of the krogan body. The occasional biotic wave would knock a krogan off balance just long enough to be finished off with a careful burst.

"Warlord," she said. "More incoming."

Wrex was on his feet, and charged again.

_–_

The krogan had thirteen hundred words for _attack_ but none for _retreat. _Even after thousands of years with the galactic community, they refused to choose one. If they _had _to use it, they used a salarian word.

There was no need for it today.

The Kuddru chieftain ended the battle as all krogan battles ended, still fighting and scrambling as Wrex drove a dagger into his chest.

_–_

The battle ended with a single stroke of a knife, while a thousand eyes watched.

Shasha Alshik gave a shuddering gasp as Wrex's dagger plunged deep in his chest. The blade bit through skin and bone and the world seemed to fade to silence as Wrex gave it a last thrust. The great chieftain of the eastern tribes held on for a second, milky eyes still challenging Wrex's crimson even as blood poured from his body.

Then he fell to his knees with a great _thud_.

The assembled krogan seemed to let out a collective breath, but none so deep as Wrex, whose breath came in great, desperate gulps. He knew the hundreds of krogan still standing – on both sides – were watching him, waiting for him to act. He knew Alshik would have parting words before demanding _kovas._ He knew he should probably check to see if Miranda had survived. He knew he should probably let go of the blade still clenched in his hands.

He settled for just that last one and took a ponderous step backwards, his leaden fingers releasing the knife where it set. The rush of battle ebbed away in a great wash, and Wrex felt the steady, massive pressure in his shoulders – a souvenir of centuries of fighting and breaking and regenerating and fighting again – resurface. He was an old, heavy thing. He was as strong as he'd ever been but so very tired.

"You lose," Wrex finally panted, looking down at the fallen chieftain and trying not to shake.

Alshik gave a wet cough that caused the obsidian scales on his hauberk to jingle. "Maybe, Wrex-Who-Would-Be-Warlord."

"I _am_ Warlord," Wrex corrected, gesturing to the hilt of his blade still poking out of Alshik's chest.

Alshik nodded. "So you are, Warlord. Apologies."

Wrex took another step back, wiping the blood from his eyes as his senses returned and he had his first chance to look at the casualties. Thousands of krogan stared back at him – Kuddru and Urdnot forces alike. Most of the skirmishes had died down once he'd met Alshik in battle, and most of his forces were still standing. His eyes scanned the crowds. Grunt. Uvenk. Miranda. The Kuddru hens (it had taken dozens of executions, but Wrex had finally made it clear just how little he would tolerate his warriors killing females of any tribes). A few wounded Kuddru warriors struggling to rise to their feet. But no Wreav… His eyes narrowed. "Where is my brother?" he rumbled. "Dead?"

Chief Alshik licked his bloodied teeth. "Not dead, Warlord," he said. "We made a d-deal. An alliance."

Wrex sniffed, unconcerned. "One he betrayed."

"No, brother."

"Look out!" Miranda's warning came too late. It turned out the battle was _not _over.

Wrex looked up in time to feel his brother's blade lance across his face. Even over the sudden chorus of roars – some approving and others aghast – he could hear the sizzle of his blood spattering on the sand. He hit the ground next to it, pain and fury pounding in his skull. A shotgun roared and Wrex felt a bloom of agony in his stomach, then another.

Wreav was on him and Wrex heard the crack of bone and armor. He rolled, vision bouncing in a wave of flying sand and glass, his brother's roar thundering above him. "Do you think I'm so empty?" Wreav demanded, and crashed upon his downed brother with an angry howl. Wreav's blows came fast and hard – he had clearly spent the battle resting and waiting for his opportunity – and Wrex felt his ankle snap under his brother's weight. Fighting the Kuddru had been different – the flatlanders were quick and vicious but lanky, relying on swift, aimed strikes instead of brute force. Fighting a fellow Urdnot was like two rockslides meeting in a canyon, all pressing weight and shattering bones.

"DO YOU THINK I'M SO EMPTY!" Wreav roared again, hammering down on Wrex on all sides.

There was a blue flash and a roar and Wreav was tumbling backwards, bellowing in surprise as he rolled through a Kuddru hut, chased by a wave of shimmering, warped gravity that kicked dust and blood in all directions.

Wrex panted deeply as he lurched to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain it earned him. "Only empty headed, Chatha," he grunted. Strips of flesh hung from his slashed face as he watched Wreav struggle to untangle himself from the tent poles. The biotic attack had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit, and the pounding in his head threatened to overpower even the quiet fury he felt bubbling up at his brother's newest treachery.

Krogan on both sides watched as the Urdnot siblings righted themselves. None stepped in to help – out the corner of his eye, Wrex saw Grunt catch Miranda's arm, pulling her back without a word. Wrex could smell their anticipation, their hunger for a fight. They had watched their warlord fight the Kuddru, and now they would watch him fight his brother. There were many who would see him die at Wreav's hands, who would see clan Urdnot back to its roots. And even those who loved him only did so because he was strong enough to keep his position.

And so they watched as their warlord gushed blood onto the sand and tried to hide his shattered ankle.

Wrex grimaced. He'd known Wreav would pull something like this eventually, but he'd hoped it could wait until a calmer day. As if Tuchanka had calm days. His limbs ached, his armor was sundered, his shotgun destroyed, his shields drained to next to nothing, but it did not matter. He had to fight.

If he could not defeat Wreav on his bad days he could not defeat him at all.

"You've learned more than a little from father, Chatha Wreav," he rumbled once Wreav had risen. His brother pawed the ground and stared at him with hate in his eyes, and Wrex stared back. "Turning on your own brood."

"Do _not _call me that!" Wreav spat. "I would _be _Chatha Wreav if _you _had not run off to join Urdnot. If _you _had not killed him!" He charged, his footsteps seeming to shake the ground.

This time Wrex was ready for him, and buried his hump in Wreav's gut. His brother's weight – more than a ton – crashed down on his shoulders until Wrex gave a great, upwards shove, pulling Wreav off his feet and slamming him down into the ground. The impacts of metal on bone on stone squealed across the valleys.

Wrex's head came crashing down onto Wreav's face so hard he tasted blood. "You know Jarroth would never hand over his tribe to _you," _he goaded, tossing his brother aside with another biotic field.

Wreav rolled to his feet, blinking the dirt out of his eyes. His knife – still dripping with Wrex's blood – turned in his grip as he circled around for a new angle. Wrex stayed in place, slowly following his brother's movements and trying not to reveal his broken foot.

"I chose to follow you," Wreav reminded him, almost slavering with battlesong as he circled for a new attack. "You said mother's tribe would welcome us."

"And they did. Urdnot Radt took us as his sons."

"They welcomed _you!_" Wreav charged again.

Wrex was too slow this time, and he felt his brother crash into him like a charging athak. A strange weightlessness took hold of him as he tumbled, hurtling to the ground. Stars filled his vision. He rolled, just avoiding his brother's second charge, and gave another biotic push. A pained grunt proved the warp had hit home but it was not enough and he felt a fresh blow to his face. Wreav pressed down on him, slamming an armored elbow into Wrex's open mouth and leaning in until Wrex felt his jaw would break.

"You… took… me… from… Clan… Chatha," Wreav accused teeth gritting audibly as he pushed all the harder, ignoring Wrex's fists desperately slamming against his head. "And then you _KILLED _father!"

It was only when Wrex's fingers found the back of Wreav's crest and yanked that Wreav gave a snarl of alarm jerked away, pushing Wrex backwards with one knee so fast that the warlord rolled through a stony cairn firepit.

The blows stopped and Wrex obligingly tried to stumble back to his feet, spitting ash from his mouth. Had to keep going. His massive strength, however, seemed to seep out from the half dozen holes in his body. Still he managed to lurch up, leaning on his good foot as he met his brother's hateful gaze again.

"You thought he would never die," Wrex panted. "That you would only get your glory in Urdnot. You should have known." Wrex gave a shuddering wheeze, listening to his brother's angry roar. Through the haze of blood he could see Wreav preparing to charge again.

And behind him… Miranda, whose finger danced on her gun handle. Her eyes bored into his and he found himself wondering at the expression he saw there. Worry or excitement? Did his being warlord factor into her beloved plans or did she want to see Wreav split his skull on the rocks?

"I was wrong to follow you," Wreav was saying, feet scraping the ground. "But I won't do it again."

Wrex took a deep breath that tasted of blood and soil, feeling the sunlight sizzle on his bleeding face. The scars there – remnants of thresher acid, one of the few things capable of leaving such a lasting mark on a krogan – felt very alive today. Wrex tried to focus on that feeling, drawing what strength he had left for one final biotic push. He had one chance.

Wreav charged.

There was a flash of blue at Wreav's feet and he crashed to the ground with a pained snarl, coming to a stop at Wrex's feet. The Warlord stood above him with no pity in his eyes, biotic energy licking around him. "No, you won't," he said.

Wrex's warp hit Wreav square on the face. There was a shattering sound and a great spurt of blood and Wreav was still.

Wrex stood strong amongst the cheering.

_–_

He almost needed help to hobble back to where Alshik still lay but he would be damned if he let his troops see him smash his brother down and then lean on another krogan's hump like an invalid. He limped as proudly as he could and tried not to sway as he looked down at the fallen chieftain.

Alshik had a smile on his face. "Well fought, Warlord," he said.

Wrex grunted.

"He had to ambush you to face you, and even then he was not strong enough. I would call him salarian but for his shared blood with you, Warlord." Wrex grimaced. The memory of his father's forces leaping from graves, butchering his _krannt_ on sacred ground, brimmed forth in his mind. "You will proceed now to my homeland? Kill my heirs?" Alshik asked, echoing Miranda's mockery from the night before.

Wrex stared down at him. Alshik was a beaten creature, his chest still pierced with Wrex's dagger. He had admitted conspiring. He did not expect mercy, nor did he want it. Not even for his sons, his clan. He knew Wrex had the power to destroy them.

But he didn't know Wrex.

Wrex shook his head, ignoring the patter of blood still dripping from his wrenched jaw. "No," he said, loud enough for his troops to hear. "No Oorloc."

Alshik's expression turned to confusion. "What!" he demanded, struggling and failing to sit up. "_Kovas_! Kill me!"

"No."

"Am I so low to be left to heal and hobble the desert!"

Wrex gave a rumble. "He is," he said, pointing to where Wreav's body baked in the sun. "He will return to me crawling on his belly or not at all." He grinned at that thought. "But you? No," Wrex repeated, and stomped on the hilt of his knife with all his strength. The knife sank and Alshik gave a roar of agony as blood fountained from the wound. Wrex stared at him as he dropped to a kneel next to Alshik's panting form. "Why did you attack?" he asked, voice quiet.

Alshik's breaths were short and wet. Still, he seemed almost glad to be in such pain. "B-because I… remember Okeer. I knew him, once." His gray eyes held a fury. "The time of warlords is over. We cannot survive another like him. Another offworlder."

Wrex twisted the knife's handle and listened to the _squelch _of flesh. Alshik's back arched in pain. "Am I like him?" Wrex asked. He had thought many nights on this question.

"You are an offworlder," Alshik spat through gritted teeth. "A traitor, as he was."

"No," Wrex said. "I am not."

"You will have us leave Tuchanka. You will lead us to death that we cannot afford."

Wrex twisted a little more. "No I won't. I have learned from the offworlders, but I am a krogan. One of the old ones."

"If I lie, Warlord, kill me!" Alshik pleaded. "_Kovas_! You have won."

"No," Wrex repeated again. "You will join my _krannt_." Wrex felt a warmth that was more from the thought of Uvenk's face at his rivals being pulled into the fold than because he was fist deep in his enemy's hot flesh.

Alshik's eyes widened and his breath stilled. "You dare?"

"I dare," Wrex said. "I spare you and your survivors and your clan. You will join my _krannt _as my loyal brother and should I betray you as Okeer did, you will kill me and take my place."

Alshik blinked in confusion. "The females?"

"Keep them." He fixed the chieftain with a fierce eye. "Alive."Alshik was silent but Wrex forged on. "Your first act of loyalty will be to gather your survivors and return home. You will tell your clan and your allies to prepare for the day I will call on them to fight."

"And if they refuse?"

"You will convince them," Wrex said, giving a final twist to the knife before yanking it out. Orange blood dripped from its blade as he carefully wiped it and tucked it into one of the scabbards on Alshik's shoulder. "I have beaten you," he said. "I AM the Warlord and I DEMAND your loyalty."

He stood on solid feet and addressed the crowd. "AND I WILL HAVE IT!"

_–_

No krogan was fool enough to offer help to the warlord, even when his leg hung stiff beneath him and his flesh dangled in strips. They would not leave him behind to be picked off by scavengers or clanless with delusions of grandeur, but to be seen slowing to his proud limp would be a grave insult. They would not coddle the warlord.

So instead they fanned out under pretext of hunting, their ranks spread far and wide with Wrex and his two charges at the epicenter for the long journey home.

_–_

The air was cooler tonight, the sunlight not so harsh once they reached the safety of the deeper canyons. Wrex's uneven footfalls were slow. Only a few hours after Wreav had broken it, the throbbing pain had left his foot, ushered out of the way by a burning sensation. His leg had gone stiff as rock as the bones knit themselves back together, and Wrex couldn't have sped to a run if he'd wanted to. So he dragged his foot along with all the dignity he could muster. Step by step. Back home.

He felt no shame, even when his body screamed out for rest with every jolt on the road. Even when his blood still left a trail behind him. Even when the varren packs started to whicker and get brave, all but sure he would die in the desert.

But his mind thundered with activity. The Gatatogs would be gone by the time he returned home. Or otherwise waiting to ambush and kill him. They would never set aside their oorloc with the flatlanders. Wreav's _krannt_ in the south would be on him soon as well. The Kuddru would spread their tales home and no doubt their neighbors would soon be on the east horizon, but to join him or fight him was hard to guess. And with Shepard stirring the Weyrlocs into a rage in the west , Wrex would be fighting enemies on every side.

There were preparations to be made. New alliances to be forged. Foes to be slain.

And _that _made Wrex rue every slow step he made. He urged himself faster, as fast as his foot could take, but the pain made it impossible to keep up for long and again and again he was forced to slow to a crawl.

Eventually he gave up. There was nothing for it. Just keep walking. Just keep walking.

For all Wrex's frustration, Grunt and Miranda did not mind the slower return trip.

"There was a breach in his armor. I saw it," Grunt was saying, gesticulating wildly as he had been for the past several hours. "A hole. Not big enough to fit my gun in, barely a finger's width apart. So do you know what I did, human?"

Miranda sighed, stepping down from one boulder onto the gravelly canyon bed. "Did you… slam your gun into it anyway?"

"Yes!" Grunt exclaimed, missing the woman's tone. "I pulled the trigger and the flatlander's body pulped! It was glorious!" The soon-to-be Urdnot Grunt was beaten and scarred, his previously pristine armor scored and abraded in a thousand places, like he'd worn it since the genophage. A Kuddru dagger had torn a great gash down the young krogan's exposed bicep but he gave it no notice. It was amazing what a few days on Tuchanka had done for him. He held himself like a krogan, he talked like a krogan. He even smelled more krogan. Wrex had planned to give him his rite for Shepard's sake alone, but it was clear the boy would earn his place if he had to. The keystone would be the final test, but he had fought and survived and that was what being a krogan was.

Grunt was still coming off the high of battle and talked non-stop, but Miranda and Wrex were quiet as the terrain slipped by. The trio made their ponderous way out of one of the canyon passes, returning to the plateaued surface where the sinking sun sent long shadows angling across the desert. His army was a great black streak spread across the horizon, wreathed in the setting sun.

Wrex stopped them at the mouth of a new, shallower canyon, interrupting Grunt's monolog with a wave. "Grunt." He pointed out to the southwest. "Do you see that smoke?" A thin column of smoke a few dozen kilometers away marked the top of a small stone tower.

Grunt stared. "Yes."

"Most of Wreav's _krannt _camps there. You will go to them and tell them what happened to him. If any of them has a problem with it… kill them."

Grunt grinned. "Yes, Warlord."

"And then return to camp. The shaman will want to begin your rite."

Grunt's excitement was palpable as he lumbered pointedly off towards the smoke, a new vigor in his step. Wrex had no doubt some of his brother's lieutenants would not take kindly to Grunt's news. There would be fighting. Death, even. But they had to be dealt with. And Grunt would do it.

Shepard wanted Grunt cured but there was nothing to cure. Grunt needed to learn how to be a krogan and that meant fighting and dying. That was the price. If he did not survive… well… Shepard would understand. Or he would not.

Wrex turned the other way and headed home, Miranda in tow.

_–_

The two of them walked for hours after the sun set and spoke not a word. The scuffing of Wrex's feet and the pained wince he gave at every step seemed thunderous enough in the darkness. It was the deepest night when Wrex finally could take no more and stopped to rest, thudding to the rocky ground against the canyon wall. His body let out an exhausted shudder.

Miranda sat across from him, watching as he massaged at his broken limb, twisting and testing the flexibility back into it.

"Are you recovering?" she asked after a long moment. "Should I call for help?"

Wrex just snorted. "I don't need help."

"Can _I _help?" she tried again. "I do know a great deal about xenophysiology. I smell like a med lab, remember?"

"You should help my brother, then."

Miranda frowned. "If he's alive."

"Oh, he's alive," Wrex sighed, closing his eyes. "For now. It'll be a few days of fending off varren but he'll survive. Wreav is a monster."

Tuchanka's silence billowed until Miranda broke it again.

"I'm more worried about fending off_ those _varren when they come after you," she said, and Wrex creaked open an eye. A dozen shiny gazes peered at them from the far end of the canyon, reflective eyes peering through the night. Wrex could not see more from where he sat, but the sounds and smells of a varren pack were a constant companion on Tuchanka. They whickered and whined in anticipation of a meal.

He chuckled. "If they were going to attack they would have done it by now," he said. Varren were smart enough to know that krogan didn't stay injured for very long. It was hard to guess whether they were even after him anyway – a krogan, even injured, was a danger. But a squishy human…

"Stay near me and you'll be fine," Wrex grunted, and laid his head back, ignoring the indignant look Miranda gave him.

Silence lapsed between them as Wrex stared up at the stars. His other eye watched the woman. She was silent. Still. Not sleeping or preening or fidgeting with her hand wrappings. Just still. Just scheming.

"We weren't always like this," he muttered eventually, staring past his injured foot. "I remember a time when blood hardly mattered. When Wreav and I would have been _krannt_. Inseparable. Not killing each other over an empty throne."

Miranda looked at him. "I wonder if you aren't inseparable anyway. You _did _spare him." He imagined he could _smell _her hidden judgments. She'd all but told him she thought the krogan were backwards primitives the last time they'd talked. Now she made even sparing his brother sound like a sin.

Wrex snorted, gritting his teeth as he pulled each of his toes back until he couldn't take it. "Maybe."

He gave another grunt and, with some effort, managed to heave himself back to his feet. He set a tentative weight on his hurt foot, testing the give with a few bounces before nodding and continuing down the canyon without a word. Miranda followed behind.

"What you did back there," he started, remembering the way Wreav had tripped on a biotic barrier before he'd dealt the final blow.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miranda insisted.

Wrex stopped to stared down at her, but her face was unreadable. He had a feeling even a human wouldn't know what to make of her. "Fine... But I know you didn't do it without reason. You want something from me." It was not a question. "Keep the krogan out of your plans," he said, his voice a quiet growl.

"You are in Shepard's plans, so you are in _my _plans," Miranda said.

For an eighteen hundred pound animal with a broken foot, Wrex could move very, very fast. In an instant he had whirled around and caught Miranda about the throat with one hand. He held her effortlessly aloft, slamming her back into the canyon wall high enough that her legs flailed for purchase without finding it.

She kicked but her foot only found Wrex's palm. He caught her ankle in a crushing grip.

"You look down on us," he rumbled. "But one squeeze and we could find out how well _you _can fend off varren with a broken foot." He flicked his head at the watching varren still shadowing their path.

Miranda said nothing, only stared daggers back at him.

"Varren go for the skull when they can," Wrex said. "They're bone crushers." He tightened his grip a little more for emphasis. "It's a quick death." He stared at her for a long moment.

He released her, and she fell choking to the ground, clutching her throat.

"Shepard is _your _warlord," he breathed. "Keep him out of your plans. If I find out you've betrayed him…" He turned. "You will wish the varren caught you."

* * *

_One day later..._

___–_

Shepard never did anything quietly. Never managed to leave an area without touching it. Wrex wondered if it was something he did on purpose or if he was just terminally unlucky, but either way, the death of Weyrloc Guld was news to rival even Wrex's unprecedented alliance with the eastern Kuddru, or the Gatatog clan's furious exit from Wrex's company.

Wrex had largely tolerated Guld. The once-powerful Weyrlocs were fond of proselytizing about the 'weak' tribes, and Urdnot most of all, but aside from defending the borders they shared with the Strylocs they had made no move against him. They were holed up well and Wrex knew dealing with them would come only at the cost of many lives, so he had let them live.

But he wasn't going to lose any sleep hearing Shepard had killed them on his own time.

Shepard and Mordin returned in the height of the day and marched to Wrex's throne, looking bloodied and tired. They stepped past the krogan guards, and didn't even spare a second glance for the body of the Kuddru messenger Wrex was still using as a footstool. Wrex expected Shepard to inquire about Grunt – to be itching to micromanage his rite of passage as soon as possible, but to his surprise it was the salarian who spoke first.

"Mission accomplished," Mordin said, back in the clipped tones more usual for his species. Wrex was almost sad to see the acting stop. "Will take mate back now." He gestured to Miranda, who was tapping away at her omnitool under a makeshift shelter. Her nails were cracked, her skin burnt, her garments torn, her mane a tangled snarl, but she had long since stopped trying to fix it.

"She has not lain a single egg," Wrex said, staring at her.

"Humans viviparous," Mordin said, unruffled. "Will take her now. Prolonged exposure to UV radiation unhealthy for her." The salarian waited for no response, defiantly stooping to drag Miranda to her feet. He linked her arm with his and marched away, his nose in the air.

Shepard and Wrex stared after them. "So…," Wrex began, "the new Normandy is as strange as the last one." It wasn't a question.

Shepard sighed. "Stranger."

"Find your salarian?"

"Dead."

Wrex grunted. "Can't expect better on Tuchanka."

"Mordin killed him. Just made the decision and shot him in a half second. He was dead before I could blink."

Wrex grunted again and stared out at the desert. He wasn't surprised. "Can't expect better on Tuchanka," he repeated.

* * *

_One day later…_

___–_

Wrex sat on his throne and thought.

The Normandy was gone and he wasn't on it.

And he wanted to be.

"The thresher's blood is used in eleven rituals," the shaman was explaining, holding up a varren bladder of freshly-collected thresher maw blood. The shaman was covered head to toe in dried gore and smelled like a chemical plant. In places the maw's acid still sizzled on his skin. With the possible exception of the newly-crowned Urdnot Grunt (who had instantly been rendered a celebrity in his new tribe, their past prejudice erased in a second by the look at a grooved, glassy tooth the size of a machete in Grunt's hand), no one was more excited by the thresher's death than the shaman, who had wasted no time in collecting a pharmacy's worth of bodily fluids from its massive corpse. He had already applied acid to his face and fingers and a half dozen other places for this ritual or that, and had been maintaining a constant commentary since returning from the keystone.

"It is a key component in Clan Urdnot's alchite oil – it gives it its unique odor," the shaman continued. "The preparation takes many weeks – I will begin it at once, Warlord."

"Good," Wrex grunted, sensing his input was needed.

The shaman's eyes narrowed in anger. "Not merely _good_, Warlord. You yourself know what this occasion means. You would not _be _clan leader, you would not _be _warlord, if your uncle had not seen you kill the maw." Indeed, it was a matter of spectacular rarity for an adult thresher to respond to the keystone at all – the poundings of the ancient reactor were said to have once called a maw with every pulse, but now the great worms had all but lost interest in it. For such a large maw to respond so aggressively – and then be killed – would be remembered by krogan worldwide for thousands of years. "It is an omen. The Maw-killer has returned to take his rightful place. He has found an heir. He has assembled an army." The shaman's excitement was palpable. "The krogan are returning."

"What for, Shaman?"

The shaman stared at Wrex. "I have no name and no power. That is not my place to decide. You have both, but you have not said and so we will wait."

Wrex snorted. He had not said for a reason, and yet all his subjects who claimed such loyalty doubted him. Called him 'human-lover' in the cover of darkness and anonymity. Called him weak. Unable to use the army he'd assembled. Called him traitor.

The shaman seemed to read his thoughts. "You will say when you are ready to say. You are warlord. You are Maw-killer. You will decide, not me."

Wrex snorted again.

There was a long silence as Wrex watched the sun move across the sky and the shaman busied himself bottling his newest acquisitions with reverent care. Wrex spent it deep in thought. About Shepard, about the mounting opposition to his rule. About the fallout from the deaths of Uvenk and Guld. About what it meant to be a krogan.

There was a shudder under his feet and he stopped, sitting up to watch the Kuddru messenger sputter and cough. Behind him, the shaman approached, watching with wide eyes. Wrex's guards gripped their weapons tighter.

Wrex smiled as the young easterner awoke from his regenerative coma. "I was wondering when you would rise," he rumbled.

The Kuddru coughed and heaved. "W-wh-"

Wrex didn't give him a moment to get his bearings. In a second he had grabbed the smaller krogan's collar and hauled him up to eye level, a knife – the same knife he'd used to down the boy in the first place – pressed up against the Kuddru's dewlap. "Ready to speak my language?"

The Kuddru gaped uselessly, eyes wide. He nodded.

"Your clan is mine now," Wrex said. "You are _mine_. I am your warlord. Understand?"

The Kuddru's previous arrogance was gone and he nodded again.

"You will go with the shaman and you will see what my clan is capable of. What the hands of Urdnot have done. You will see something that has not been seen in a thousand years and you will know what strength is." The shaman nodded proudly. "When the shaman sees fit to release you, you will go home, but you will carry a message to every krogan you meet."

The Kuddru swallowed. "W-what message, Warlord?"

Wrex smiled. "You will tell them that the Reapers are coming. You will tell them to prepare for _my _Oorloc."

The Kuddru nodded without comprehension.

"Go," Wrex grunted, and dropped the Kuddru in a great _thud _of armor and bone. The flatlander scrambled to his feet as if on fire and practically sprinted to join the shaman. Wrex _whumped _back into his throne and watched them depart, grinning.

He felt good. Suddenly better than before. Grunt and his _krannt _had killed a thresher maw. There were still krogan – young krogan – with the strength of the old ones. Grunt shared Wrex's great strength, and that filled Wrex with a hope he hadn't felt in years.

His strength was all they needed.

He was the lizard king. He was warlord.

And when the Reapers came, they would learn what that meant.

_–_

* * *

**Codex Entry: Warlord Ganar Okeer, the Offworlder**

Ever since the nuclear war that devastated their homeplanet, krogan have lived in a violent clan society. Resources are scarce and enemies abundant on Tuchanka, and each clan must fight to scrape out its place in the order. Sometimes, however, a great warlord will rise up, a krogan so powerful, so persuasive, that rival clans forget their grudges and flock to his ranks. Krogan tale-tellers speak of dozens of great warlords and their exploits with reverence in their voices.

And hatred in their voices for one.

The Ganar clan – now essentially extinct – was one of the oldest and most powerful on Tuchanka. After the nuclear wars, a loose coalition of clans – later called the Salt Clans – rose to power. The Salt Clans – led by the Gatatog and Ganar – made their home in a vast stretch of saltpan desert that separated the lowland krogan to the west and the flatlanders to the east. Though harsh and almost foodless, the saltflats were dotted by the ruins of dozens of ancient krogan cities and temples, including the Keystone (the semi-functional remains of a nuclear power plant) and the great crypt of Tosaqq-asot, where the dead heroes of dozens of clans were interred. Enemy clans were reluctant to attack those who held their own sacred sites, and more reluctant still to face the Gatatog's Warrior Triplets – the last three nuclear warheads on Tuchanka. The Gatatog and Ganar used their holdings as badges of power, demanding obedience and tribute from the smaller clans to their east and west, and while they never approached the size of the pre-war krogan empires, came to be the largest clans on Tuchanka.

Salarians made first contact with the Gatatogs, believing them the most technological and 'civilized' of the krogan clans, and offered them technology in exchange for soldiers. The Gatatogs' answer was swift and final – they detonated one of their own nukes upon the salarian landing party, killing the envoys in nuclear fire.

The salarians changed tactics, approaching instead the smaller, more progressive clans in the east and west. Many of the clans had rankled under centuries of Salt Clan rule, and were anxious for any advantage the aliens could give them. Soon, the Salt Clans were under attack from a dozen sides by clans bristling with salarian weapons and fed by salarian crops. The Salt Clans crushed the first clans to stand against them, but bit by bit the uplifted clans chipped away at the Salt Clans' power. The sacred sites that had given them so much influence were captured – Urdnot in the west took the Keystone. Northern Statka battlemasters stormed Tosaqq-asot in a day. Kuddru kasgars infiltrated the Gatatog cities and stole the remaining two Triplets, detonating one atop a Gatatog temple in retribution for thousands of years of slavery and oppression (and starting a feud that persists to this day).

The Salt Clans were tossed low, and the lowlanders to the west emerged as the new ruling power on Tuchanka. Ganar and Gatatog and their allies reluctantly accepted their fate and the salarian aid, and a new age in krogan history began.

While the Gatatogs trickled to obscurity, however, the Ganar quickly found themselves rising to power again. The great Ganar warrior Ganar Sottut was one of the first eight warlords to arise from Tuchanka as its population exploded, and the first eight the salarians took offworld to fight the rachni. Sottut commanded a force of tens of thousands of krogan and gained a reputation for brutality and strength. While the eight warlords ultimately became absorbed under Kredak, the Great Lowlander, Sottut remained one of Kredak's top lieutenants, and was responsible for storming the Rachni worlds Fosuuuj and Amtaaat.

Centuries later, when Kredak declared war on the Citadel races, Sottut rallied to his side again, and assisted in attacks on a dozen planets and moons. Sottut was ultimately killed by asari peacekeeping forces on Arya, control of his forces fell to the then-already-wizened Ganar Okeer. When Kredak was killed in the Battle of Eophili by the newly-appeared turian Hierarchy, the Ganar returned to Tuchanka with most of the other defeated krogan in Kredak's army. Their chieftain Okeer, however, disappeared, believed dead by his forces.

Okeer ultimately resurfaced on a post-genophage Tuchanka after more than four centuries away. He returned a changed krogan. Where before he had been obedient and conservative, now he bellowed and pontificated about a new dawn for the krogan. About reclaiming their lost roots. And, most importantly, about curing the genophage, which had started to crumble the krogan forces from within. Tens of thousands of krogan flocked to Okeer's forces, eager for deliverance from the rest of the galaxy. Okeer reinstituted practices that had died with the Salt Clans, including widespread slavery of the smaller, more progressive tribes like Urdnot who could not be convinced to join him. His army numbered almost a million when he left Tuchanka, but still he recruited. Okeer brought his message to all three of the last remaining warlords – Modo, Shiagur, and Kodus – begging them for their aid. Thousands more joined him.

And then Okeer disappeared into space. Modo, Shiagur, and Kodus, already struggling to keep up their numbers, had lost too many troops and were slain by the turians within a few years of one another.

Most of Okeer's followers were never seen again. His Ganar tribe – which he'd removed from Tuchanka down to the last individual – was shattered, and, no longer with a home to return to, its remnants formed the beginnings of the Blood Pack on Omega. Thousands of others found their way across Citadel Space and the Terminus Systems, where they found work as mercenaries and enforcers. Many others made their way back to Tuchanka.

None knew what had happened to Okeer, or to the tens of thousands still missing.

Okeer's legacy among the krogan is one of betrayal and failure. His nickname – the Offworlder – inspires anger across Tuchanka, and more than twelve hundred years later, there have been no new warlords.

_–_

* * *

**A/N: **And after much delay, here it is!

I don't figure I need to tell you how cool Wrex is. I only hope I've done him justice.

So… on krogan ages (because I know this'll be brought up if I don't say something): While we're never given a solid number in the games, there's good reason to think they live a very, very long time. Comments Wrex makes in ME1 suggest he's at least 1300 years old, while Okeer's dossier in ME2 confirms he is a veteran of the rebellions, with 'millenia of combat experience'. This means krogan – not asari – are the longest lived species in the ME universe (as far as we know). I like to think nobody even knows how long they live, for they live so long and so violently (rather like, say, some reptiles that we still can't properly age).

In other news, this chapter (the longest one yet, once again – this is 50 pages in Word, for Warlord's sake) pushes this story past 200000 words! Huzzah, another landmark! I must again thank you all for your support. Call me conceited but I just love reading your comments and reviews. It helps fuel my writing engines, and I feel like I need a lot of damn fuel.

Next chapter splits perspective five ways (two we've seen before). Chapter after THAT? Twelve ways (seriously).


	19. Chapter 19, Cerberus, the Crew

**Cerberus – The Crew**

* * *

–

Ken Donnelly's reflection looked back at him with a dour face, brows furrowed in determination. "You… are a man on a mission, Mr. Donnelly," the reflection said, and puffed out its chest. "You are not afraid. You're gonna go down into that cave and you're gonna talk to her and you're gonna come back. Alive." _I hope._

"You're not really gonna do this, are you?" Gabby asked, looking back at him with that face she'd honed and perfected for so many years. That face that meant 'You are getting ready to embarrass yourself and I'm going to laugh when you do.' She was quite good at it, really.

Ken turned on her, leaving his braver reflection behind. "Yes I am, Gabby. It's a good idea. And nobody will listen to me."

Gabby just snortedindelicately. She sat on the edge of the walkway that led to the ship's eezo core, her legs dangling over the edge as she adjusted magnetic crampons over her uniform's usual boots.

Ken persisted. "I'm serious, Gabby. We work hard, we need a way to unwind. Garrus says the turians do it all the time. He's even down there already."

"Yeah, down there _alone_, Kenneth," Gabby said, like she was talking to an infant. "Shooting a _gun_." Indeed, with Miranda and Shepard both planetside on Tuchanka, Garrus had been in charge for days. He'd spent most of that time, however, locked in the hangar venting his anger at the krogan's most recent attack. "I don't think he wants to play soldier with you. He'll probably just mash your face again."

Ken touched the top rim of Garrus' blue shell chestpiece resting on Tali's workbench. The pits and scars it'd taken on Omega still made themselves known on the polished surface, but they paled next to the crack up the left side where Grunt's forearm had squeezed the turian up against the wall. "He's just pouting over the armor."

"So finish fixing it instead of trying to start a brawl."

Ken eyed the innards of the armor. As far as _he _was concerned, it was a lost cause, sentimental value to the turian vigilante or not. Might as well toss it. But Tali had been working on and off to restore it for days, stitching circuits and shield panels back together with almost microscopic precision. "An' risk messin' up Tali's work?" Ken asked, tapping one exposed circuit board with what must have been three thousand connections on it. "She'd rip my guts out."

"And Jack won't?"

Ken frowned. He usually maintained a policy of giving Jack a wide berth and a half – by any definition the woman was uncomfortable to be around, to say nothing of dangerous – but now he needed her help. He was pretty much stuck banking on the idea that she wasn't as evil as she pretended to be. "Listen, Tali'll be done with this in a few hours," he said, tapping the armor again. "For the time bein', the best I can do for Garrus is to distract him before he shoots a hole in the hull."

"And you think starting a fight between Jack and Garrus will distract him for you."

"You make it sound so… insidious, but yeah. She's the only one stupid enough to rile 'im up."

"_One _of the only ones," Gabby corrected.

Ken shrugged. "Eh. I'm hopin' she gets the worst of it. If he tries to kill me I can always say she threatened me into it." He fixed his co-part with a toothy grin. "And come on, you can't tell me you aren't at least a _little _curious to get in that hangar and see what a turian looks like with his shirt off."

"Like some kind of turkey turtle?" Gabby guessed. "Don't think I want to know. Besides," she said, pulling her comically-oversized goggles over her eyes. "I've got fuel lines to clean." She clicked her tongue, gesturing to the straps on her back. Ken dutifully helped her hook in. His hands adjusted each line and buckle with a well-practiced swiftness, tightening the harness while she fiddled with her heavy gloves.

Despite all of the innovations that mass effect fields had brought to space travel, ships still needed to burn fuel, and the fuel lines still had to be maintained. "Clean" was holdover jargon from atmospheric craft design – modern ships like the Normandy had field systems installed to keep what dust and grime and water vapor the crew could produce out of their sensitive engines and so their parts only needed to be truly cleaned every few years. But antiproton reactors produced a lot of heat and built up a lot of charge, and given time even components made of the strongest Asari steels warped and bent like plastic in an oven. Metal gas would condense on cooler parts and efficiency would drop, and so from time to time somebody had to rappel down past the mass effect core and replace what needed replacing with newly-fabricated pieces from the armory. Joker had had the engines cooling for the past two days so Gabby wouldn't vaporize, but still it was dangerous, filthy work.

"Tell me again why _I'm _the one doing this?" Gabby whined.

"'cuz for once you didn't trick me into it?" Ken suggested, pulling one of the straps and tucking it in so it wouldn't catch. "'cuz you're the propulsion specialist?" he added, for once happy to admit her superiority in the field if it meant he didn't have to spend the shift down below. "You're the engine master, remember?"

"Then maybe I need an apprentice."

"I could do that," Ken said. "I could… tighten your toolbelt," he cinched the belt tighter around her hips. "Or… steal you food from the mess?" He thrust a hand down one pocket and pulled out a ration bar he'd nicked that morning. "Hungry?"

Gabby almost growled behind her rebreather mask. "Starving." Gabby had been fasting since the previous night for her stint down on the fuel lines – she had to drop right past the core to reach them, and every engineer worth his salt had learned that stepping within a foot or two of a decent sized eezo core with food in your stomach was recipe for an instant mess.

Gabby just scowled, fogging up her mask. "We can't all have an iron stomach, Kenneth. I eat that, it'll end up all over the core and _you'll _have to clean it up."

Ken laughed and tossed the bar on her console for later. "I'll take that as a kindness then." He gave her the thumbs up as he tugged the safety line one last time. "Good to go," he said, patting her shoulder. "Watch yourself down there. An' if the core spikes, remember, turn _into _the well."

"Yeah, yeah," Gabby grumbled, backing down off the ledge, her gloved hands clenching the safety line brake. "Thanks Mom."

"Be safe."

"You're in more danger than me," Gabby said, and dropped out of his view.

–

Gabby was right, of course. They were both descending into the _Normandy's _underbelly, but all Gabby was liable to find was glowing-hot vacuum tubes and hydrogen fumes.

_He _had to face something much worse.

Still, Ken Donnelly was not a man to be dissuaded. He supposed that was why Gabby never tried to stop him when he told her his plans. He was a _Donnelly_, he'd told her once (maybe just a little drunk at the time) and he was going to man up and do what he had to do no matter _what _she said! She hadn't stopped him from getting drunk and toying with the accelerators on the fighter pilots' school flight simulators, but she had shown up to bail him out of jail when he got caught. She hadn't stopped him from telling off the Alliance brass for what they did to Shepard, but all the same she'd come to his hearing and practically bullied Admiral Hackett out of court martialing him.

The memories made Donnelly smile. Gabby had always been something of a safety net for him, even if she was the kind that let you break a bone or two before it caught you.

Even so, as he descended the staircase into Jack's lair, he wondered if this time Gabby couldn't have tried a little harder to be the regular kind of net. Her usual style of wait-until-later help wouldn't be worth much if Jack killed him.

Donnelly hadn't been down into the storage deck since Jack had moved in. He'd always figured repairing whatever damage she'd done to it later would be better than confronting her about it now. But he'd never quite anticipated how _much _damage she would do. As he stepped off the last step onto the thick steel grating of the lowest deck for the first time in a month, all he could do was stare.

Jack's lair was dark. She'd knocked out most of the red emergency lights, wreathing the storage deck with eerie silhouettes but nothing more. It was black and silent, but that didn't hide the mess of broken crates and equipment she'd strewn about her hole. In the dim lighting Donnelly could make out what looked to be a nest, a bed made up of what he guessed were foam pads torn from the insides of flotation jackets. The smell of sweat and blood and chemicals Donnelly didn't want to hazard a guess at filled the air.

His heart started to pound.

Donnelly cursed as he felt something fragile break under his boot. Bones, he imagined. The bones of the _last _engineer to come face her. "H…hello?" he called, straining his ears for a response or even an echo. There was neither.

He took another step. "Hello?"

"What do you want?" Jack's voice came from the dark. Thick and grimy from disuse.

Ken squinted and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Nothing. That wasn't creepy at all. He cleared his throat and muscled on. "Ahh… well. I had a… proposal for you… Ma'am."

"You're in the wrong place, little man," Jack said, and Donnelly saw a glimmer of the spider's fangs in the gloom. His heart roared.

"Well, I was lookin' for you, actually. This place looked about right to start," Donnelly tried. He managed a weak chuckle. "Dark. Scary as all hell. It suits you." His eyes had started to adjust to the darkness and he could just make out the woman's form, her hundreds of tattoos serpentining through the red light.

"What do you want?" Jack repeated, and she disappeared again.

Donnelly took a deep breath. Now or never. "Well… I… was going to ask if you wanted to join us. See, a few of the other crewmembers and I are gonna get the turian to let us turn the hangar into a fighting… arena… thing. Strictly non-lethal, you know. Jus' tryin' to let some steam out. Maybe air out a few grudges. Have a little fun before Miranda comes back."

Jack growled (she actually _growled_, for Chrissake).

Donnelly prattled on, even as his voice rang out stupider and stupider in the darkness. He didn't know what else to do. "I just… thought perhaps you'd enjoy that… sort of thing. Show us some moves."

Jack emerged from the darkness so quickly Donnelly barely had time to recoil in horror. In an instant she was on him, a wicked looking knife pressed up against his throat and an animalistic snarl on her lips. "I'll show you a move," she hissed.

There were a few white seconds where all Donnelly could think of was whether or not his heart had exploded _out _of his chest or if the pieces of it were still bouncing around inside of him. When a few seconds proved that she'd only frightened him into one of the normal, non-exploding kind of heart attacks, he found himself eyeing the blade at his neck. He gulped carefully, looking at it shine in the red light. He was _pretty _sure Shepard wouldn't let Jack have a weapon at all, knife or gun or biotic amp. He supposed she'd stolen it from somebody. Zaeed, maybe. "Ahh… yes. Did I mention no knives? Non-lethal, I think I said."

Jack's upper lip wrinkled in distaste. He could see the sweat beading on it. He'd always thought the unstable woman had a beauty to her, like if she only took a bath she might give even Miranda a run for her money, but he supposed he'd never been much turned on by women who held him at knife-point. "Quit your fucking jokes," she spat, digging the knife a little closer. "I'm not a joke."

Donnelly ignored the bead of blood he felt trickling down his neck from where she'd nicked him. "Didn't say you were," he said. "I think I'm just a bit of a smartass, to be honest. Always have been. Coping mechanism, see, for dealing with…" he gulped again, "unmitigated terror."

"Funny way of showing it."

"Gotto deal with it somehow. Dad used to say it takes a man to start a fight sober. I figure walkin' in here counts as startin' a fight. _Thought _I was sober too, but I'm havin' second thoughts, I admit."

Jack actually laughed at that. Some of the tension seemed to leach from her shoulders. "Fuck, little man. That tightass turian said you could fight?"

"It was his idea," Ken said, laughing nervously. " Turian thing, apparently."

Jack looked away, a far off grimace on her face. "Fuckin' turians," she growled. "Fuckin' fights." She leaned back into him, until their foreheads almost touched. "You want to hear a story, little man?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

What could a little man do but nod?

"Cerberus used to put me in fights," she said, voice taking on a sickly sweet tone. "Set me against the other fucking experiments. Made me kill them. Drugged the shit out of me and watched me tear them apart."

Donnelly felt his second heart attack coming on. Suddenly talking to Jack seemed like a very stupid idea indeed. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memor-"

"I loved it," Jack purred. "Every second of it. Still feel it when I fight. Still see the looks on their faces."

"I did say _non-lethal_, right? Just throwin' that out again."

"This is my kind of shit," she said, leaning back on her haunches. "Doesn't sound like Vakarian, though. He's Shepard's little butt buddy. He wouldn't hit you if his life depended on it."

Donnelly chuckled nervously at the memory of getting a turian fist in his face. Garrus looked subdued until he didn't, and then he looked like a frickin' dinosaur and hit like a truck. "I've had a fairly compellin' experience that says he would."

Jack stared at him, eyes narrowed. "He's gonna fight?" she asked, not quite keeping the note of interest out of her voice.

Donnelly smiled. "He doesn't know it yet, but I hope so. That's kinda what I need you for." Garrus and Jack had mostly left each other alone since she'd nearly brained him on Purgatory, but betting pools on the ship gave ten to one odds she'd be the next one to piss off the turian enough to get Archangel-ed. "You go down there and convince him to let us spar," Donnelly explained. "He gives in, we all get to do it too. We need to have fun an' relax, you need to feel your little…" he crossed his eyes "crazy thoughts, he needs a distraction. Why not?"

Jack paused for a moment, as if teetering between gutting Donnelly or not. After a _very _long few seconds, she lowered her knife.

"Fuck it, he needs an _ass-kicking_. I'll do it."

She turned and stalked back into her pit.

–

Garrus _did _look something like a turkey turtle without his armor.

Donnelly had never considered himself unduly intimidated by aliens. They were _strange, _yes, but what part of the universe wasn't? He'd had marine friends back on Earth who had little good to say of turians or – later – batarians, but he'd spent his enlisted time deep in some engine room or another, surrounded by his own kind. He hadn't seen friends die to them. He hadn't been there for the Blitz. If he was aware of a battle loss at all, it was almost always in the impersonal stage of ship-to-ship warfare. It was hard to identify a turian ship with the turians themselves, especially when so many human ships drew technical inspiration from turian designs.

But a turian outside of his ship was a very different animal, and so was a turian outside of his armor. Donnelly couldn't help but stare.

Garrus' keel-shaped chest was as shingled as his head, but clean and unscarred. Even without his trademarked blue shell, the alien was still hardened head to toe, the soft tissue of his deceptively-long neck anchoring inside of a thick collar of bone like a tortoise. No longer muffled, his breathing seemed unbelievably loud, every intake thrumming like a speeder vent and causing his plates to shift and slide to accommodate the expansion of his lungs.

Armor had a way of smoothing out the differences between species. With it, Garrus might have been a man in a mask with a funny way of walking. Without it, he looked impossibly nonhuman.

Still, he had a very human look of aggravation on his beaked face as Donnelly overrode the lock and stepped into the hangar. Heatsinks riddled the ground at his booted feet, most cold but dozens still glowing like embers. "I did say I wanted to be left alone," he said, ejecting another sink from his gleaming incisor rifle. It bounced across the smooth floor before coming to rest at Donnelly's feet.

Donnelly shrugged. "Yeah… I know. But you've been down here for two shifts straight now, and I have work to do," he lied, pretending to head over to one of the access panels.

Garrus arched an armored brow, gently setting his gun down next to four or five others he'd arranged on a crate. He lifted the next in line, which extended fearsomely in his grasp. "You're off-shift," Garrus pointed out, his taloned hands adjusting the rifle scope with rote familiarity. "Tali's shield upgrades are on hiatus until we can berth and shut down power. You have nothing to do until tomorrow's attenuator maintenance."

"Ahh… true," Ken admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"I _am _keeping a bead on things," Garrus said, leveling the rifle and taking aim at a target he'd set up across the hangar. With drum rounds and a magnetic suppressor loaded the rifle was little more than a BB gun, but still the report came as a magnificent boom when he fired. The target – which couldn't have been more than a few centimeters across – disappeared with a bouncing _clang_.

"Sorry," Donnelly said, feeling a little stupid for being caught assuming Garrus did not know his shift schedule. There was some unvoiced debate aboard the _Normandy _as to whether Garrus or Miranda was Shepard's true second in command, but unlike Miranda, the turian had made no efforts to assert himself as such. He seemed more than willing to step aside and let things fall as they would. Still, Donnelly knew that with some prodding, Garrus had a great deal of value to say, and spoke with a straight faced honesty that felt worlds safer than Miranda's sly language.

Garrus gave a satisfied sniff and set the rifle down on his armored foot. "I just need some time to myself." He did not add _until my armor is fixed_.

Donnelly, having ensured that that alone time was about to end courtesy of an ornery biotic criminal, felt a new urge to change the subject. "How're you holding up?"

The turian craned his neck to the side, revealing the black bruises where Grunt's arm had crushed him, along with part of his fringe conspicuously missing the last few inches. He'd clearly sanded down the ragged edge but it still looked cracked and broken. It matched the rest of his face. "Nothing I haven't suffered before," he said. "Hurt my pride more than anything."

"Still mad at Shepard?" Donnelly asked, remembering well how the turian had shuddered with anger as he'd stared down their commander overtop Grunt's unconscious body.

"Yes," Garrus said, turning back to his guns. "But I'll get over it. It's not the first time we've disagreed." He rolled his shoulders in their bony sockets with a few impressive cracks. "What do you want, Donnelly?"

Donnelly didn't hesitate. "A few of us want to do what you said the turians do. When things are getting stressful." Garrus' beady eyes stared at Donnelly without blinking, and he found the words tumbling out without any real order to them. "Fight, you know. Blow off steam. The hangar's plenty big enough for a few sparring arenas, and the krogan's gone. We could never do it with him here."

"He'd want to play," Garrus agreed.

"Aye, and that'd hurt."

Garrus was silent for a moment, thinking. His mandibles fiddled in their sockets. "It will hurt anyway," he said at length. "It's not a good idea. Especially with Shepard and Mordin gone."

Donnelly gritted his teeth. He had hoped Garrus would be more amenable to it. "Why not? Chakwas is here. An' you said it worked for the turians."

Garrus sighed. "It _does _work for turians, but this is a _human _ship. Turian recruits are trained in hand to hand combat, regardless of what they end up assigned. Engineers, medics, gun crews, everybody. We know how to fight without getting hurt." He looked down at Donnelly. "I don't think this crew will get much out of it."

Donnelly felt a prickle of resentment at that. "We might not all be badass alien snipers but we aren't _children_, Garrus," he said, crossing his arms across his chest. "I bet there are humans on this ship that could give you a run for your money. Jack or Zaeed or Jacob. Hell, Iwent through boot camp." He dropped into a fighting stance, raising his fists in front of his face. "_I'll _fight you. You can kick my ass and I don't care. I'm not scared."

"I didn't say you were scared, I just-"

"I've got a gun in my locker," Ken added, mocking a few quick jabs. "Hell, I was going to _be _a marine 'till my dad convinced me it was a waste of my talents."

Garrus' mandibles flickered. "Donnelly, I-"

He was interrupted by a crash and the door slamming open.

"TURIAN!" Jack called. Her boots thundered on the hangar floor. The biotic was dressed for battle (as dressed as she got) and had a fearsome look on her face as she marched towards them, something (Donnelly sighed with relief that it wasn't the knife) clutched in her hand. "I got something of yours!"

Donnelly took a step back, watching Garrus' mandibles flicker in curiosity. Jack stomped up to the turian and glared up at him, unafraid.

"Little man here says you wanted to fight me."

Garrus fixed Donnelly with a bemused glare.

"Ahh… Those weren't my… _exact_ words, Garrus," he said, taking a step backwards

"He said you needed an ass-kicking, and he thought I should give it to you," Jack announced, grinning wickedly at Donnelly.

Donnelly's eyes widened, suddenly more aware of the hundred pounds or so of weight difference between the turian and himself. "Those _definitely _weren't my words."

Garrus ignored him. "I don't want to fight, Jack," he said, voice even. He turned back to his rifles. "No one is fighting, play or otherwise. Go back to your quarters." He turned back to Donnelly. "Both of you."

Jack reintroduced herself to Garrus by way of her knee in his unarmored side. Deactivated amp or not, Donnelly saw the flash of blue and heard the solid _whump _against Garrus' thick skin. The turian stumbled to the ground with a snarl, Jack bounding after him. In a second, Jack was on top of him, straddling his deep, bony torso and staring down with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Thought you might say that," she purred, staring down at Garrus, whose face flickered somewhere between astonishment and fury. "So I brought you something." She held out her tattooed fist. Dangling from it, strung on a crude lanyard, was the missing end of Garrus' broken head-fringe. The finger-sized piece of bone swiveled and pivoted in Jack's grip.

"Is that supposed to anger me?" Garrus asked, flanged voice smug. Now he just looked amused by Jack's bravado.

"Nope," Jack said, looping the macabre necklace over her naked shoulders so the broken bone fell to rest between her breasts. She cocked a grin and smacked a blue-spiked fist down into the turian's bruised neck. "But that was."

Jack laughed.

She stopped laughing when Garrus' uncovered talons raked across her stomach, sending blood lancing across the floor. The turian was up in a flash, tossing her off of him as if she weighed nothing at all. It was her turn to stumble, especially when Garrus caught her with a plated elbow in the gut. A low, throaty growl erupted from somewhere in Garrus' bellow chest and he lashed out, raptor-quick, catching Jack on the chin and sending her tumbling towards Donnelly so fast he could hardly get out of the way.

Jack skidded to a stop, smiling under the blood trickling from her forehead.

"You alright Garrus?" Donnelly asked, watching Garrus' head lock low in his shell, eyes fixed forward. The turian's shoulders were heaving with rage, his clawed fingers twitching in their sheathes.

"Yeah _Garrus_," Jack jeered, stepping back into a fighting position and smearing the blood on her chest in like it was nothing. The necklace dangled tauntingly. "I thought you didn't _want _to fight."

Garrus had a gleam in his eye. He stared at Jack with a predatory intensity, his frustration and better judgment clearly grappling for dominance. There was a long pause. "Fine. No weapons, no biotics," he said finally. "No claws to the face," he added, flicking his talons. "First one to bow loses." His voice was quiet.

Donnelly let out a joyous _whoop _that echoed in stark contrast to the battle-fury on the faces of the two combatants. He did it! He managed to pull it off without _anyone _getting murdered! "I play winner!"

They stopped. Jack gave a snort of laughter.

Donnelly frowned. "What?"

* * *

–

"Access granted." EDI's voice was as neutral as ever.

So why did she sound so _disappointed_? Kelly almost turned back as the door to Shepard's quarters slid open. Of course, it didn't make any sense – EDI was on Cerberus' side, not Shepard's – but still the yeoman couldn't help but feel guiltier knowing the AI knew what she was doing.

On the morality of re-bugging Shepard's room, however, EDI was silent.

Kelly took a steeling breath and passed the threshold, set on getting her task done as quickly as possible.

The Illusive Man's second message had appeared just like the first had, inside her omni-tool's startup screens. It had been just two words – _go now_. Kelly had wasted no time, leaving the fun in the hangar under pretense of going to the bathroom and stopping by her bunk just long enough to grab the new bugs she'd had pressed into her hand on Illium.

She stooped to a knee next to Shepard's desk and peeled out the first of the bugs from its wrapper. The even-faced man who'd given them to her had told her that they were cutting-edge fiber circuits, and hid their transmissions inside of signals they detected around them, but Kelly would be amazed if anyone could find them either way – they were clear as glass and less than a quarter centimeter across. It didn't hurt either that since disabling all of the cameras Shepard had let his quarters fall to mess – Shepard had lost his first Star of Terra when the SR1 had been destroyed, and the replacement Cerberus had made for him was meeting the same fate under a sea of datapads, paper, and plastic trays from the crew deck.

Kelly found her eye drawn to the silver glint of the medal all the same, and before she knew it she'd pulled it out of its tomb. It glowed like the treasure in a cheesy adventure movie, reflecting glittering light onto her face as she slid her fingers down the side of the case. _For gallantry and selflessness beyond the pale of regular man, _read the engraving along the bottom, _awarded on behalf of the Systems Alliance and the colony of Elysium, September 2176._

_This _was the man she served.

She'd read the reports, of course. Heard how a plainclothes Shepard and a turian drifter had coordinated the defense of a starport full of civilians for two days before reinforcements could arrive (that the Cerberus report devoted pages to the turian where the Alliance's had regulated her to a footnote had told Kelly all she needed to know about Cerberus' reputation of bigotry). He was Commander Shepard, and even as she opened the case and touched the medal's cool surface, those letters seemed to echo in her head.

He had saved Elysium – her home. While she'd been screwing around, coasting through her private school classes without ever opening a textbook, he'd been on her home planet shooting batarians in a spaceport terminal with a borrowed turian rifle. Protecting her family, her friends. Her whole _life _only existed because he did.

But holding the medal in her hands made it all seem more real. Shepard was a larger-than-life figure whether he wanted to be or not. He had friends willing to die for him. Friends who loved him even without him having saved their home planets. She almost wished she could count herself among them.

But she wasn't.

Kelly slid the bug into the velvet padding and closed up the case.

She moved on, recalling the Man's instructions perfectly. His diagrams had told her where each bug would go, down to the tiniest detail. One in the desk, another under a panel pried out of the terminal. Another inside the power coupler. Two in the bed, one in the fish tank's pump, one more on the inside of the bathroom's drain. She placed each one in its proper spot.

Kelly hated to think she was betraying Shepard's trust. The commander had been nothing but sweet to her during her entire time on the Normandy. Even though she saw how he veiled his distrust behind smiles and easy charisma, she saw too the genuineness behind that. He _wanted _to trust her, trust Cerberus. And Kelly believed with all her heart that he could – that he _should_.

It was why she'd resolved to ignore Miranda's demand that she seduce Shepard if she could. It wasn't that she would put up much resistance if the oblivious man showed any interest, but Kelly wanted to be the commander's friend more than she wanted to jump his bones – she wanted to show him it was possible to be a good person in Cerberus. It was possible to be honest and loving and valiant and all the things Shepard wanted to be and still wear the uniform.

And as hard as that was to buy while she was sneaking in his room and bugging it while he was away, Kelly knew sometimes even good people had to take measures. That was what Cerberus was all about. The Illusive Man had saved millions by manipulating the batarians into only enslaving colonies they couldn't hold rather than those they could. Jacob had broken more skulls in the name of peace than anyone she'd ever met, and regretted it the whole way. Kelly was a good person but she was a good liar too. It would be wrong of any of them to waste their potential.

The Illusive Man needed her to help him keep an eye on Shepard? She would. Because it was for the best. Because she had to. If she had to put up with the guilt of listening to herself rationalize it just like all the patients she'd seen do the same, well… that was the price.

Job done, she got out of Shepard's quarters as fast as her feet could carry her.

–

The elevator gave a smooth click as the doors closed behind her and Kelly let loose the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She'd done what she had to.

As the elevator started its descent, Kelly went through her old ritual. She breathed deeply, eyes closed as she sorted her thoughts into their proper boxes. Back in her college days, when memories would keep her up for days on end, she'd been so desperately tired she'd considered getting a medical graybox interface to help control her hyperactive mind. She counted herself lucky that the doctors had convinced her otherwise. She'd just needed a little discipline, and while it was still a struggle sometimes, today Kelly felt her worries compartmentalize away in a flash. The tingling, guilty feel of the leftover bugs clenched in her fist disappeared.

The elevator jerked to a stop on the main deck. Kelly did not quite keep the surprised yelp out of her voice as her eyes shot open to see the ship's pilot staring at her.

She found herself in an instant. "Joker!" she said, sliding the bugs into her rear pocket.

Joker snorted and batted her hands away when she tried to help him limp into the elevator. His voice was even when he said her name, but she could see the suspicion in his eyes as they searched her, as if he was looking for the veiled insult on her face. Joker had not responded well to Kelly's prodding, however subtle she'd tried to be about it. It seemed like he took everything she said to him as a verbal trap she was laying. Like he feared she would ground him again if she knew everything about him – like she'd take the _Normandy _from him. Still, Kelly was convinced Joker needed her more than anyone aboard did, and so she persisted. "Why aren't you down in the hangar with the others?" she asked, smiling.

Joker shrugged, leaning against the rear wall as the elevator resumed its descent. "Never been much one for fistfights."

"What _are _you one much for?"

"Dueling," Joker said, not missing a beat. "You know. White gloves, swords. All that. More elegant. Not a fight without some good bureaucracy, I always say."

"I could see you with a sword," Kelly said, tapping her chin in feigned deep thought. She wasn't sure where she could find one for him. Perhaps Kasumi would know.

"Also going to the bathroom without having to worry about being run over by an alien," Joker grumbled.

Kelly laughed. "That _would _be a problem," she said.

Joker just shrugged again, burying the smile she just knew he felt. "Shepard just radio'd," he said. "Said they'd be back inside the hour. So I gotta get all my hobbling out of the way before that." The elevator slid to a stop on the crew deck, and Joker started for the door without another word, steadying himself on the frame.

"Bye Joker!" Kelly said, waving at his back. He gave a non-specific grunt which made her titter again.

She thought that was that until she turned towards the shared crew quarters and almost ran into Joker's outstretched arm. "Wait a minute, Chambers," Joker said.

She turned and met his eyes, cocking one eyebrow. Her practiced look of total innocence did nothing to lessen the squint in Joker's gaze.

"What were you doing up there?" Joker asked, gesturing up at the ceiling with his chin. "On the top deck?"

Kelly's mind rifled through excuses at a mile a minute. Some part of her wanted to tell at least part of the truth – Joker had already guessed she wasn't _really _the ship's yeoman, and would probably write her off as an insignificant threat to Shepard. And even if he _did _start accusing her of sneaking, his words would probably be written off as his usual contrariness. Still, as sure as she was that Joker would jump on a chance to validate his dislike of her, Kelly knew the truth would destroy any chance she'd ever get of earning his trust. She had to lie.

It only took her an instant to come up with something, but Joker's expression made it very clear it was an instant too long.

"I was trying to figure out why Shepard's room terminal doesn't notify him of new messages," she lied, deciding to joke the joker. "Tired of sitting right there and telling him every time he gets some new spam. Ya know?"

Joker's eyes narrowed, searching her for dishonesty.

She just smiled.

Joker relaxed. "You _are _the yeoman," he said.

Kelly faked another laugh as the pilot turned back towards the bathroom, adjusting his hat with an indignant tug. "I'm like a VI but cheaper!"

Joker had nothing to say to that and Kelly bid her retreat.

–

Kelly sighed as she entered the crew quarters and found her way to her bunk, feeling glummer than she'd felt in a long time.

Joker knew. He hadn't bought it. He knew she'd lied to him. He'd tell Shepard and Shepard would tell Garrus and the rest of the crew and they'd all feel so _betrayed _and it was all her fault.

Some psychologist. She was going to lose her patients, all because she was trying to help them.

She hopped up on her bed, pushing aside the great stack of datapads Garrus had delivered to her the previous day (he was in charge while Shepard and Miranda were away, he'd told her, but that didn't mean he was doing Miranda's paperwork. He'd left that behind when he'd left C-Sec). While she hadn't been afforded the same extravagant accommodations as Miranda, she'd been given a top bunk to herself, which she'd taken the time to adorn with a lavish plush blanket and pillow – neon orange – that she'd bought on Elysium. She found that reminder of home dearly needed now, and as soon as she'd tossed the leftover bugs in the little lockbox she kept shoved between the mattress and wall she buried her face in her pillow and breathed deep, trying to remember the sweet smell of the fruiting grasses that grew on the hills north of her home, or the pleasant way the colors popped under the thermal sails.

Her mind travelled absently, trying to decide if she should head back down to the hangar to take part in the fun. As soon as Donnelly had rushed through the crew deck with the news that he'd convinced Garrus to let them spar, all of the crew's previous reservations had disappeared and they'd flocked to the hangar to take advantage of some time off. Kasumi had broken out her impressive stash of alien alcohols and Kelly had been delighted to see the crew manage to relax in each other's company for once, even if they were doing so by beating each other to a pulp.

It had been fun, but now Kelly felt like she didn't belong there. Like perhaps she should just lay in bed and let the crew have their fun without her.

A beep from her personal datapad interrupted her self-pity and she sat up, pulling it off of her shelf and flicking it on.

It clicked to life. The message the Illusive Man had left her was gone, a new one in its place

_Good work_, the screen said.

"That is just creepy," she breathed, glancing around for the camera. She could see none, but considering how subtle the bugs she'd placed were, that wasn't so surprising. "Can you hear me?"

The words changed. _I can hear everything on the ship again. Thanks to you._

Kelly frowned. Thanks to her.

The Illusive Man must have guessed her thoughts (he really _was_ creepy), because the screen updated again.

_You did the right thing, Chambers._ _I promise._

"I hope you're right."

The Illusive Man didn't say '_I'm always right_' like she expected him to. She supposed it didn't need to be said. Of all the people she'd met, she'd never met any as unusual as him. The Man was so focused he came off as distracted. If he said the sky was red, he said it with a calm conviction that made you wonder if you'd just been looking at it wrong. Still…

"I think Joker knows."

_He doesn't_.

"He knows something. He'll tell Shepard."

_He won't have time. There's been a development. Shepard will be back on the Normandy in a matter of hours. When he returns, tell him to contact me with all haste._

Kelly nodded.

_But until then, I have another job for you, if you're willing._

As if she could say no.

_You'll like this one better._

The screen did not wait for an answer, but returned to the view of her parents that was her desktop. In the middle of the screen, however, sat a new document. Kelly opened it and watched as the datapad bloomed with diagrams and blueprints. She smiled as she committed each one to memory. She _did _like this one better.

She left the room with the leftover bugs back in her pocket.

Bugging Shepard's room? She'd do it if she had to.

Bugging _Miranda's _room? She'd do _that _with a smile on her face.

* * *

–

It was a fact of the galaxy. It didn't matter how complex the universe got. How many spaceships and superweapons and twiggy aliens they met. How smart the computers could be made.

_Somebody_ had to wipe the table off at the end of the day.

It might as well be him.

Gardner worked quietly and thoroughly. He'd already loaded all of the dishes into the autoclave (the days of soap and water were long past aboard a spaceship, and it only took one low-gravity spill to convince you that was the right way of things). The uneaten food was in the waste ovens having the moisture baked out of it.

He was alone, the lights from the medbay casting long shadows across the floor as he scrubbed the table surfaces long past clean. It was technically only second shift, usually a busy time of day, but with both the Commander and Operative Lawson down planetside, most of the crew had decided to take a personal day. For many that had meant sleep – and real sleep, not just the few hours of refreshing-but-not-quite-enough chemically-induced sleep in the pods – but that was before half the ship had flocked to the hangar to watch the spectacle there. The turian versus the convict. Gardner wasn't sure who he wanted to win.

He cleaned in silence.

Gardner was a quiet man when nobody was around.

The timepiece in the galley ticked over, signaling the start of third shift, just as he finished putting everything away. The mess was still silent but for the muffled cheering coming from the lower decks. Normally he'd see a rush of traffic at his galley as the second shift was relieved of duty, but he had his doubts anybody would be patronizing his services today.

He had more to do. There was always something. The holoconsole box from the crew quarters needed fixing, and with the Saturn Bowl approaching he knew he'd never live it down if he didn't get it back together.

But for now he took a seat at the table and closed his eyes, happy, for once, to just let his mind go blank and appreciate the quiet. It was a rare moment of solitude on an otherwise crowded ship, and he savored it. He liked people – he really did – but it was a backwards fact of the universe that going out into outer space meant fitting into very little of it. It didn't matter if it was a two-man skiff or a space station the size of the Citadel, there just wasn't enough room for everybody. It made you go crazy, stay out long enough. A man wanted to be out in the open.

An empty mess would do for now.

Gardner did not keep a cross with him, but that did not stop him from bowing his head to pray. He was not a man to ask God for too much, just the strength to keep going another day. Just protection for those he loved. Just the wisdom to understand.

It was hard, sometimes, to be a praying man in the sort of galaxy that would take his life from him. It would be coming up on two years next month, two years since his great shift in perspective. Two years since he'd been pulled off the eezo line and told his home had been burnt by the raiders. Two years since Abby and Sara and his brother James and…

There was a point to it all. If Gardner knew anything it was that. But sometimes that point… sometimes it was hard to see.

A sudden raucous bout of cheering echoed from downstairs, and Gardner felt the solitude closing in around him. The silence was suddenly very loud. He stared at the elevator for a moment.

_What the hell._

Grabbing his datapad from under the sink, he typed out a quick '_make it yourself' _and threw it on the counter. He washed his hands, thrust a thermos of coffee into one pocket, gathered up his toolbox, his glasses, and the broken leftovers of the holoconsole, and made for the lower decks.

–

"Safety first," they'd always joked back in Gardner's mining days. "Safety of the rig, then safety of the eezo, then safety of the cutters, and _then _safety of the miners." It hadn't been until Elcot had named him in charge of enforcing safety that he'd realized how true it was, how all of the walrus-mustached man's bellowing about 'protecting the machine' and 'layin' down your lives' had been meant earnestly.

He and the other miners had been cogs, pure and simple, and the Cord-Hislop company wouldn't have given half a damn if they'd all died so long as the equipment was safe.

Obviously Shepard was not Elcot and Cerberus was not Cord-Hislop, but Gardner had never been able to shake the feeling that he was the only one looking out for the people around him. The only one who gave a damn if they were hurt.

So he watched the sparring with unease. He sipped his coffee from a makeshift crate-cum-table in one corner of the hangar, picking at the insides of the broken holoconsole and trying not to intervene as the crew attempted to punch each other's lights out.

It was harder with each round. Gardner knew there was some tension among the Normandy crew, some grudges that needed closure, some petty rivalries to work out, but watching his coworkers spar made Gardner think a few more needed to be selected for the ground team. There had already been three bloody noses and countless sprained wrists and ankles by the time Gardner had found the source of the holoconsole's problem. But he kept his mouth shut and let them have their fun.

Nearly the entire ship had come down to watch the festivities, and were crowded around a pair of arenas they'd ringed with great shipping containers of Mordin's lab equipment (what the salarian would think to see his expensive gadgets being used for such a purpose was anybody's guess). Everything else had been cleared out of the way, leaving plenty of space for drinking and gambling. Unsurprisingly, Kasumi was right in the center of both, calling out bids at a mile a minute without ever a misplaced syllable. The crew alternately cheered and booed as each pair tried their luck in the ring. Money and booze flowed freely (and, as far as Gardner could tell, the only reason Kasumi was providing the latter so generously was because she was scooping up so much of the former).

Most of the crowd was cheering at what was apparently round six between Vakarian and Jack. Gardner couldn't help but wince at the rapid-fire impacts of armor on skin (or at the numbers Kasumi was calling out) but the two combatants seemed to notice neither, and only fought more viciously with every jab, like they couldn't decide whether they were fighting or screwing. The other ring had changed out more often – at present it was Donnelly and Hawthorne, Ken shirtless and flaunting it while his fully-clothed opponent circled around him.

Gardner returned his focus to the broken console. A few connections had been knocked out of position. A simple fix. Opening up his toolkit (not the fancy one Cerberus had afforded him, with three thousand gleaming tools he'd never heard of, but the well-worn set he'd carried with him for more than a decade. Simple tools for simple problems) he set to work replacing the bent connectors. It surprised him sometimes how specialized the young men and women around him had become. He'd seen for himself how smart they all were – half the words said on this ship went right over his head, whether it was talk of impact attenuators or inferometers, heuristic runtimes or transgenetic markers. Still, break their video screen and they were useless. Couldn't snake a drain, couldn't fix a jammed door. Knew what a sphygmomanometer was but had never seen a hammer.

But then, he supposed they didn't have to know as long as he was still there.

"Not planning to join the festivities, Rupert?"

Gardner almost jumped at the doctor's voice. She was in full uniform – as she so often was – and smiled at him.

Gardner smiled back. "Doctor! Naw, not the fighting sort. I'm no soldier." Gardner had understood that about himself a long time ago. "Besides," he said, pointing to her medbag as she dragged over a crate to take a seat next to him, "I doubt you need more folks to worry about."

"Oh, it's not a bother," Chakwas insisted. "It's a relief to occasionally treat a wound that doesn't involve alien neurotoxins or vacuum exposure." She sounded genuinely more content than Gardner had heard her in a long time. Indeed, the doctor looked tired but Gardner couldn't help but notice a hint of excitement in her eyes as she watched the fighting.

"Maybe you should go a few rounds," Gardner joked, grinning.

Chakwas looked at him with a half-smile. "Maybe I will."

Their laughter was interrupted as EDI materialized nearby. "Cerberus safety protocols allow for crewmember physical recreation in specified areas," she said, voice apologetic, "but require that at least one medical professional remain on standby in case of emergency. With Dr. Solus away, Dr. Chakwas is the only available medical professional."

"I was just kidding, EDI," Chakwas said, waving a hand. "I'm happy to let the younger generation take the hits, thank you very much."

"Of course, Dr. Chakwas." EDI disappeared.

Gardner always felt marginally unsettled by the AI, but now he found his mind stuck on the doctor's words. "They _are _young," he said, shaking his head as he was again reminded just how very young they were. Discounting a few of the aliens, he, Chakwas, and Zaeed were the only crewmembers past forty. Medical technology was such that they each probably had a half century or so left to them still, but somehow all of those years looked small next to the years that separated them from the younger men and women they served.

Chakwas nodded knowingly. "Aren't they? Practically children."

"Don't remember when ships flew slow."

"Or when nobody called themselves 'human'," Chakwas added.

"Or when everybody knew that the galaxy was _dangerous_. Not some playground to play soldier in." Gardner shook his head. Watching them clobber each other made them seem all the more foolish to him with every passing blow. He had seen how skilled the crew was – any one of them, young or not, eclipsed his meager education by a mile. Cerberus had asked for the best and they'd gotten it. The kids had skill and precision and drive. They knew their trades, and they wanted the collectors dead.

But they didn't want it like they should. They didn't know what it meant. Didn't know how it had felt to tune your television (not holoconsole) with the rest of the world to watch the first ships go through the relay. Couldn't tell you where they were when the news of First Contact had come through. Didn't remember the way it had felt knowing they were at war with another species, temperament and abilities unknown.

Chakwas gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. "Well, we'll just have to be there to remind them, then, won't we?"

–

It was Gardner himself who chose to end the festivities. EDI had announced that Shepard's ground team was minutes from returning but it had only been after Gardner had stood up and started bellowing threats of stew-ladling duties that the miscreants had been convinced to evacuate the hangar.

The away team had come back to a hallway full of smiling faces, even if half of them were smiling behind bruises or bloodied lips. Turian or not, Gardner had been able to see how nervous Vakarian was as Shepard's gaze had turned to him, then back to the makeshift arenas and betting parlor, then back to him. (Donnelly, just behind and with a spectacular shiner over one eye, looked more nervous still).

But then Shepard had laughed and the tension had bled out and everyone had gone back to their posts except for one intensely jealous krogan and one very filthy Cerberus operative.

It would have been a good ending to the day if the news of the disabled collector ship hadn't gone out ten minutes later.

–

Gardner was on his hands and knees, scrubbing a bloodstain from the hangar floor, when he heard the _clomp _of boots.

"Funny time to do some cleaning," Zaeed observed, staring down at him. The grizzled mercenary was in full armor, suited up and ready to go with an assault rifle in his hands and a flamethrower tank on his back. None of the beastly scars he'd displayed so proudly when it had been his turn to spar were visible, but the deep dents and missing paint on the armor did the job well enough on their own.

Gardner grunted and kept scrubbing.

"Not gonna go look at the ship?" Zaeed asked. There was a painful screech as he dragged a heavy crate over to sit on. "It's pretty big. Same one we saw on Horizon. Just floatin' out there." He gestured out past the far hangar wall with one hand.

"I saw it," Gardner said. Like the rest of the ship, he had flocked to the viewing screens to see the great disabled hulk that Shepard's team was about to try to infiltrate. Half of the ground squad was still in the Illusive Man's fancy communications room arguing about their plan of attack.

Zaeed raised a brow. "Not impressed, then?" he asked absently, fishing a pair of cigars out of one of his pants pockets.

"Not my job," Gardner said. "The ground team has to tackle that. I just clean floors."

"Ha!" Zaeed barked. "I like that attitude, Gardner. Do your goddamn job and everything works out. Wish the rest of you Cerberus fools had half that discipline." He lit the cigars on the igniter of his flamethrower and held one out to Gardner without explanation.

Gardner shook his head. "No one ever tell you smoking's unsafe?"

Zaeed just shrugged and shoved the second cigar into his mouth next to the first. "Not half as unsafe as stormin' collector ships," he grunted. "Though I got a funny story about that, actually," he said. "Arms dealer I ran into a few years ago, see, he-"

"Some other time, Massani," Gardner interrupted. Gardner had never minded Zaeed so much as some of the crew did. By and large people gave the grizzled mercenary a wide berth, but as far as Gardner was concerned, Zaeed was one of the only people aboard with his head on straight. He was quiet and grumpy but he didn't carve out a territory or eat weird things like all the aliens Shepard had cobbled together. He was just a man, a man old enough not to be offended when you cut off his story.

Zaeed puffed quietly on his cigars, two-colored eyes fixed on hangar wall as if they could pierce through to the ship that still floated out beyond it. His expression didn't betray a thing, but Gardner knew he was planning. Preparing himself.

"Your loss on the cigar," Zaeed said after a moment, puffing them again for emphasis, "but I still think it's a bloody stupid time to be cleaning, uhh…" he paused to look, "blood off the floors. Go get a snack. Hit up the little princess for a drink. Take a nap. Might be your last chance before we get blown out of the goddamn sky."

Gardner shrugged. "If I went to take a nap I might just sleep through that," he said. "Besides, wouldn't do to have one of you slip and break your necks on your way to getting yourselves killed out there."

"Wouldn't be your fault," Zaeed said, grinning. He pointed to the stain with a boastful gleam in his bicolored eyes. "Pretty sure that's Donnelly."

Gardner stared at him. "So it's _your_ fault." He remembered well the _thwap _of Zaeed's fist against Donnelly's face. The engineer had had it coming, of course – nobody else had been stupid enough to challenge the merc to spar – but considering Donnelly had been coming off the adrenaline high of a few lucky victories, one would think Zaeed might have gone easy on him.

"Damn right," Zaeed said, looking immensely proud. "You should be thanking me for instilling a little respect for the elderly."

"He's just a kid. You could have let him have his moment."

Zaeed nodded. "Coulda," he agreed, face contemplative. "Coulda let him take out Big Bad Massani, let him show off for the girls a little instead of just breaking his face." He laughed. "'Course, _his_ girl wasn't there. Daniels. If she was I mighta considered it."

Gardner grinned despite himself. "You're a saint, Massani."

Zaeed gave his usual lopsided smirk, lopsided-er than usual around the girth of two cigars. "Hell yeah I am. Makin' a difference every day. Just like you."

Gardner sighed. "Yeah. Just like me."

Making a difference, one clean floor at a time.

* * *

_Four hours later…_

_–_

She might have chosen a better time to kick off her boot, Gabby mused, than half a second before the ship's artificial gravity died. Said boot had been sent flying across the hall trailing the ash and soot it had picked up down in the fuel lines. Now it was floating above Zaeed's doorframe, drunkenly swiveling about its toe in a shimmering cloud of ash. It might have been beautiful if Gabby had cared to look.

As it was, however, she found her attention focused on not passing out. Despite its romanticized portrayal in movies back on Earth, modern spacetravel had long ago left behind the concerns of zero gravity. The advent of mass effect fields had made artificial gravity trivial and relegated big, bouncing spacewalks to a quaint relic to be enjoyed as a novelty. Gabby remembered taking a space cruise with her family shortly after her father had won the Asimov Prize and going into the zero-g playroom with all the other kids to climb on colorful monkey bars that wound their way around the ceilings and walls.

She hadn't liked it then either.

She thought she'd repressed that embarrassing incident away, but the feeling of her ears trying to swallow themselves as the normally-omnipresent hum of the Normandy'sfield generators died away to a crushing silence brought it all back in a nauseating rush. Gabby clenched her eyes as tightly as she could and fought to stop from retching out the ration bar Ken had left on her console. She was dimly aware of bumping into the ceiling alongside her shed boot – it wasn't a hard bump but it sent her reeling, bouncing back down the hall in a slow motion dance, disturbing the floating halos of ash and grease.

The ship's lights had died with the gravity, and now only the calm glow of emergency lighting remained. No alarm had been raised – EDI's usual warning klaxons were eerily silent. Something had happened on the collector ship. Something that knocked the AI and the rest of the ship's systems out of commission.

"E…EDI?" Gabby asked, not opening her eyes. She found herself cringing in anticipation of silence – if EDI was truly down, they might be in very great danger.

EDI's answer came quickly but her voice was flat. "Emergency protocols have been engaged. Cyberwarfare suites in use. AI functions restricted to mission critical inquiries. Non-mission critical inquiries will be addressed as resources allow. Please stand by. Please stand by. Please stand by. Please stand by."

Gabby grimaced. "Great." At least EDI wasn't dead. She drifted into the door to Grunt's storage room and felt her knee settle into part of the doorframe. This time she didn't bounce but fell into a twisted pirouette, rooted sidewise at the knee and spinning, hair flailed about like a hungry anemone.

She'd been trained for this, years before, and now she screwed up her forehead trying to remember the rules. _Don't move_. That had been one of them. Or, no. _Think before you move_. _The rules are different in zero g. _The Alliance forced all its naval personnel to go through a microgravity course in case the unlikely ever happened, but Gabby and the rest of the engineers had treated it like a game. Now she found herself regretting not having taken it more seriously. She forced her eyes open and almost immediately shut them again when she saw the hallway spinning around her.

"I _really _should have gotten the ear dusting," she groused to no one in particular, working up the courage to open her eyes again. The ship still spun silently around her, like she was the center of the universe and it a wheeling galaxy.

She grabbed for the door frame to stop the spinning and ended up accidentally pushing off the door with her one booted foot. That slight shift made everything worse, and she found herself floating away again. A scrambling grip on part of a dead light fixture got her spinning the other direction, still mockingly unstable.

She bit her lip and tried again. Think. Think before you move.

Gently this time.

With as much patience as she could muster, she managed to hook her socked toe around a cable and slowly, slowly reel herself in, coming to a stop in one of the corners. She continued to twist until she had wedged herself up onto the ceiling, pushing her back against the bulkhead and pinning herself in place. The corridor finally showed mercy and came to a stop.

"Ken!" she shouted.

The ship was strangely quiet – Shepard had taken his entire squad aboard the collector ship – and Gabby heard her partner-in-crime's voice echo from the engine room.

"Ya alright, Gabby?" His voice was a blessed comfort, even muffled and nasally as it was under the broken nose Zaeed had given him during his little arena games.

"How do you _think_ I am?"

"Gainin' a new perspective?"

Gabby rolled her eyes. "Very funny, Kenneth. EDI's not talking. Can you see anything from where you are?"

There was a few seconds of grunting. "Aye. Managed to wrap myself up in Tali's console. Looks like secondary systems are down throughout the ship. Had some kind of power spike."

"It was a trap." Joker's voice filled the engineering deck so suddenly Gabby almost lost her grip on the ceiling. He managed to make the proclamation sound almost casual, though Gabby could hear the distraction in his voice over the chattering of instruments in the background. "Frickin' bugs tried to blow out…" he paused for a moment, muttering something foul Gabby did not catch, "our grid. EDI pushed it all through nonessential systems."

Gabby felt her grip slipping and another wave of vertigo, like she was leaning over the edge of a very long fall. It was good to know life support was still on, at least. "Nonessential?" she whined all the same, "I think _gravity's_ pretty essential!"

Joker actually laughed. "Not compared to the peripheral dampener systems."

There was a long beat of silence. Gabby couldn't see Ken, but all the same she knew they wore the same shocked look. "She _didn't_..."

"She _did_," Joker confirmed. "Apparently EDI considered them nonessential too."

Kenneth voiced what they were all thinking. "Without dampeners we can't jump."

"Sure we can," Joker said.

"…Not without being _liquefied_..." The ship's inertial dampeners were the least obvious but perhaps most important of the ship's many mass effect fields – without them, Joker could hardly toe the engines without sending the crew whiplashing into the lower decks at Mach five.

"There's always a catch, isn't there?" Joker quipped. "Ground team'll be safe in the Kodiak, maybe some of the crew up on the command deck too, but I guess EDI and Timmy figure the rest of you can end up smoothies if you gotto." The pilot's levity made his words almost surreal – Gabby almost thought he'd shout 'gotcha' and laugh at the looks on their faces, but she knew the pilot well enough to know how serious he was. They were going to die. The computer had decided it would sacrifice them along with the other nonessential systems.

Ken's voice had a new steel in it. "How long do we have to fix it?"

"Don't know," Joker answered. "Until Shepard gets aboard and I have to get us out of here."

"You wouldn't just let us die," Gabby said. They'd had some disagreements with the ship's cantankerous pilot in the past, but Tali had always spoke glowingly of him. Even as grumpy as he acted, it was hard to imagine him sacrificing anyone.

"No offense, but I sure as hell would," Joker said, and his voice was dead serious for the first time since Gabby had met him. "As soon as we barnswallow that shuttle I am pressing the button, dampeners or not. You either float your asses up to the command deck and take your chances or you fix the dampeners. But I am _not _letting this ship go down again. Or Shepard."

The two engineers were silent. It was clear from Joker's tone that he meant it. Run and hope most of the crew could get to the main dampeners and survive the jump or risk trying to fix the peripherals before Shepard got back aboard and maybe save everybody. It was no choice at all.

"Then we have to get into the hangar," Gabby said finally, shaking her head as she risked a peek down (up?) through the hangar windows. The power spike had knocked out the fields that kept the hangar's atmosphere contained and its contents had blasted out into the cold vacuum. A few scattered crates clung to the ceilings and walls like flotsam but otherwise what had been a makeshift fighting arena only hours before was now cold and airless. It looked impossibly deep. "…without proper spacesuits."

"I'll keep the belly turned," Joker said, back to his mock cheer. "So your skin doesn't get baked off."

Gabby gulped. There was something dearly wrong with that man.

"…you know. As fast," Joker finished.

–

Gabby would try to strangle him if she didn't think she'd end up bouncing around Jack's cargo deck.

"An' the _eleventh _reason this is cool is because now I don't have to stand on one foot. I can just float." Ken wiggled his injured foot in midair, causing him to roll backwards. "No pain."

Gabby yanked the lid off of another storage crate (it went spiraling away). "You wouldn't have hurt your foot at all if you hadn't tried to fight _Zaeed, _you damn fool." She stared dourly into the crate – more tools and specialty parts their fabricators couldn't make. She pushed it aside.

"An' that reminds me of the _twelfth _reason," Ken said, ignoring her. "I would have _totally _kicked his ass in zero G. I am a _natural _at this."

Gabby would have argued if it wasn't true, but Ken had picked up the subtleties of zero G movement a lot faster than she had. He was almost graceful, monkeying around on walls and ceilings, apparently without the head-splitting waves of seasickness Gabby felt every time she shifted position. He seemed to have no problem settling on any surface he chose, while Gabby had remained stubbornly biased in favor of the floors, gravity or not. "For someone who's about to die you're awfully cheerful."

Ken fixed her with a look that managed to be exasperated even under a nose bandage and a black eye and red emergency lighting. "We're not gonna _die_, Gabby," he said. "I am _tryin' _to cheer you up if you'd stop bein' so dramatic."

Gabby looked away. "I don't want to be cheered up. Just help me find the parts, okay?"

"Best squadmate to have here, right now?" Ken said, changing the subject, "Tali. Definitely Tali."

It was true – Tali's built in spacesuit and ridiculous technological acumen would be a blessing now. Of course the quarian had gone with Shepard. If she were here she'd probably already have fixed the dampeners with a paperclip and half a flashlight and be well into lecturing them on proper maintenance or something. "Oh screw her for not being here," Gabby griped. For once she'd welcome the lecture.

"No fair. You always yell at me when _I _talk about screwin' her."

Gabby couldn't help but laugh at that. "Shut up, Kenneth," she said, grinning despite herself.

"Yes ma'am."

The two of them fell silent as they continued to search the upended cargo for the supplies they needed. Technically they were lucky – Gabby had already pulled out their store of personal oxygen tanks and tack-boots for the morning's work on the engines. It had been a bit of a chore to catch them from where they'd migrated all around the vaulted ceiling of the core chamber (though the residual gravity from the core's pulsing mass effect field had made it at least a little easier to right themselves), but they'd managed to suit up well enough for brief space work. It wasn't as good as a real spacesuit, but at least they wouldn't suffocate or float off into the abyss while they were working.

Still, what they had to do to get dampeners back online (they hoped) was little more than a giant fuse change, and they needed some giant fuses.

Ken's silence didn't last long. "Worst squadmate?" he started again, "Grunt. Think he's good at crushin' you normally?"

Gabby rolled her eyes and ignored his chatter. The thought of her looming death weighed heavily on her mind. This was exactly the sort of thing she'd claimed she wanted when she was a girl (though the wiseass Scotsman was new). She'd been her father's shining star, his little math whiz, and he'd cultivated in her the same prodigy that had made him so successful, but she had refused to follow him into building ships for industry. She shared his love for ships but she wanted _excitement, _she'd told him_. _A little _danger_. Not just staring at blueprints.

He'd been upset – he hadn't said anything but he'd given that little sniff that made his moustache twitch and meant he ever-so-disappointed in her – but he'd ultimately helped her get into the Alliance's engineer corps, where indeed she'd found all the excitement and danger (and, again, wiseass Scotsmen) she could ever want. He hadn't even complained when she'd changed her surname to avoid letting her superiors coddle her when they learned she was his daughter.

And now it was a bit too much. But she'd been too stubborn, too willful to spend her life drawing blueprints from the safety of an orbital shipyard. She supposed that's why her father had ended up the one to build the SR2, and she might just end up the one to die on it.

Still, if she hadn't joined the Alliance she would have never met Ken. She stole a glance at her happy-go-lucky counterpart as she dug out the next crate in the pile. Ken was still talking to himself and she could not help but smile at his usual goofiness, at his ability to continue being a wiseass even with a mashed face and the very real possibility of having a mashed _body_ inside the next hour or so. She knew he was laying it on thick for her benefit, playing her foil like he always did when she needed it, and it had rarely meant so much to her.

She found herself opening her mouth. "Ken… I…" She realized too late she didn't really know what she wanted to say. Ken looked at her, one ruddy eyebrow creaked up on his face. "Thanks," she blurted.

Ken smiled. "You got it, Gabbster. I'm changin' my mind, though. Now I really dowant to see Grunt try this. Probably couldn't even stand up. It'd be like a dog in a hovercar."

"Ken, Joker could push that button at any time. Are those reallywhat you want your last words to be?"

"Not really," Ken agreed, opening yet another box and peering inside. He smiled. "How about… 'I found 'em'?"

"You found wh-" Gabby stopped as Ken held out an open crate for her to see. Indeed he _had _found them – a quartet of new fuses, each as big around as her arm, rested in cast foam holders. Ken grinned like the magnificent bastard he'd always fancied himself and Gabby was forced to concede the comparison, if only this once. She almost _wanted _to get liquefied now, if only to see the look on his face melt under ten thousand times standard Earth gravity. But she let him have his victory, and followed him as he crawled along the ceiling, crate dragging weightlessly behind.

"One last thing, Kenneth," she said.

He stopped to look.

"Jack would be _way _worse than Grunt right now. Look what we did to her hole."

Ken nodded, grinning at the mess they'd made. "Look what _gravity _did to her hole."

–

There was no sound in space. Gabby knew this, of course. Sci-fi nerds the galaxy over – Ken, for one – loved to cry foul at the explosions and laser blasts and rumbling engines to be found in just about every space action movie ever made – only the 'artsy' ones bothered to capture the crushing silence and emptiness of the void.

But the funny thing was that all the action movies were right. Gabby stared out the open hangar bay doors at the vast bulk of the collector ship and her brain went right to work providing the necessary sound effects for her. Constellations of clicky tones popped as lights flickered to life across the ship's vast flank. Panels moved and slid and twisted and whooshed as Gabby watched the pitted, gravelly surface awaken. Worst of all was the roar from the great arc of yellow that had kindled in the sleeping giant's maw – the energy weapon mentioned in the files the Illusive Man had provided, no doubt.

Gabby had been in the Battle of the Citadel, had faced Sovereign, but she'd done it from safe within the belly of the _Perugia_. Seeing the alien bulk rumble beneath her was the second scariest thing she'd ever seen.

The first was the last fuse floating out towards it, just out of finger reach.

The first three fuses had gone in fine. The dampener projectors were built under the hangar floor for ready access, and while it had taken some trial and error to get them to extend without power, Gabby had managed to wire the power unit on one of their welders to deliver enough juice to pull open the hatches. Unscrewing the blown fuses from their cases had proven the biggest challenge – once the wrench was set, any torque on it would just cause _them _to twist, not the bolts. They ended up having to double-team it, bracing themselves down on either side of the fuse and painstakingly passing the wrench over and over until the fuse came loose.

It was exhausting work and coupled with the lack of a proper spacesuit Gabby felt her temperature soaring. Space had so many ways to kill her, she knew, but it seemed today it had decided on boiling her alive under her own body heat. Still, by the time they'd finally moved to the fourth projector they'd figured out their rhythms well enough and it went quickly.

And then one of them had reached for the fresh fuse and bumped it.

It spoke to the severity of the situation that neither one remembered who did it.

"Well… shit," Ken panted, staring out at the fuse meandering its way away towards the backdrop of the vast alien ship. His face looked defeated behind the thick fog on his mask. "That's…" he paused, for once at a loss. "Hmm…"

Gabby was closer, and cinched her safety line back as far as she could, until it was at the end of its slack. She climbed up on the projector, bracing herself against its safety panels and strained like a dog on a leash. The blackness of space seemed to boil up around her, and she was suddenly keenly aware of just how far there was to fall if her line broke. She reached out all the same, straining until she could feel the line's elasticity come to an end.

The fuse hovered just outside her reach, her fingers paddling uselessly just centimeters short. It continued spiraling away, ever so slowly.

"Shit, Kenneth. I can't reach it!"

"Never thought your shortness would get us killed."

Gabby turned down to look at him. "This isn't _funny _Kenneth!" She almost had to duck to avoid a wrench that went hurtling past her head. The thrown spanner helicoptered past, narrowly missing the floating fuse before bouncing against the far wall with a silent impact. "Kenneth!"

Ken was already taking aim with the next wrench. "What?"

"Don't _throw _stuff at it! You're just going to knock it farther."

Ken stopped mid-throw. "Good point."

"What are we going to do?"

Joker's voice crackled in their masks' earpieces. "Whatever you do, do it now! Ground team is on its way!"

_Shit shit shit shit shit._

"I got it."

She looked down at Ken in time to watch him detach his safety line, the only thing keeping him attached to the Normandy. The cable started to float immediately, tentacle-ing its way out into the empty hangar. "Ken… What are you doing?"

Ken just grinned behind his mask. "Catch me."

He _jumped._ _Towards _the open airlock.

Gabby almost missed him. She was so struck dumb that she almost let him sail on past and out into the collector ship. It was what he deserved, the fool. But sense caught up at the last moment and she found herself jumping too, scrambling to grab at his trailing line before it was too late. Her gloves found the line and she yanked hard, ignoring the wave of nausea as she reached the end of her leash and was pulled back into the floor.

Both engineers tumbled down in a tangle of limbs and cables, Ken holding the snatched fuse aloft in victory. Gabby was vaguely aware of Ken pushing her aside like a furious, seasick balloon, diving for the fuse's socket and slamming it in (her brain provided a dramatic _click_).

And then came the biggest relief of her life as she felt a pull at her stomach and came crashing to the floor in a torrent of sweet, sweet gravity. Stars swam in front of her eyes. She didn't even mind when she felt Ken fall down on top of her back, nor when the Kodiak came slamming into the hangar not a meter away from them.

The two engineers just lied there, listening to the sound of EDI pumping air back into the hangar and the roar of the Normandy's engines as Joker sped them away, leaving the pursuing collectors in the dust. Gabby relished the feel of the floor – and it was wonderfully, unambiguously the floor this time – against her stomach.

Ken's voice was muffled. "We… did it."

"Kenneth?"

"Yeah?"

"Your nose still broken?"

Ken sat up and pulled off his helmet, tossing it aside. He felt at his nose with one gloved hand. "Pretty sure, yeah."

"Tell me when it heals so I can break it again."

Ken let out a weary bark of laughter and twisted around to wrap an arm around her neck and squeeze her to him in a rough hug. "You got it, Gabby."

* * *

–

Dr. Chakwas sipped her coffee, pinky finger extended like she was at a fancy party, and just about managed to keep the amusement off her face as the beverage floated out of the cup and attempted to flee to the ceiling in little shimmering globes.

She remembered the days before artificial gravity – her first space voyage had been on one of the old STL supercruisers. Nine months to Mars, nine months of residency at the single Martian hospital, then nine months back home. All of it spent with her hair floating and her every meal a logistical nightmare. It had been a trial by fire and she had passed (and, incidentally, was one of the last doctors-in-training to do so before the Prothean ruins made microgravity obsolete.)

So when the Normandy had given a shudder and the surgical tools she had been preparing for the ground team's return from the collector ship had started to float, Chakwas had calmly packed them up, returned to her chair, strapped herself in, and poured herself a drink. It was a silly game – pretending to be utterly unruffled – but it had made her smile and remember old times.

And when the gravity came back on and the sounds of the Kodiak barreling into the hangar had shook the ship, Chakwas calmly returned to work.

–

Holographic panels filled the medbay windows as EDI tabulated the injuries attained on the collector ship. Chakwas stared at them, a feeling of dread in her stomach but face dour as she mentally triaged them into their proper place.

She read them one by one. Burns. Contusions. A few cuts and bruises. One crewmember had had his armor ignite (Chakwas skipped that one – Grunt's list of injuries always read like more like a stack of autopsy reports). Dozens of small shrapnel wounds. Worst off was Mr. Massani, who'd taken a few glancing shots to the right leg.

She reached the end of the list. No life-threatening injuries. No casualties.

Chakwas breathed a sigh of relief. A good day, then. Considering the danger involved in storming a colossal alien ship, a single gunshot wound was very fortunate news indeed (and she was sure Zaeed would love the chance to add another story to his lineup). Chakwas hated to think about the day when she would again see someone she loved on that screen (and she knew it was a matter of _when, _not _if)_ but that day had been pushed back once again.

She readied her burn kit and a few surgical tools, a couple strips of gauze, an analgesic patch, and a few tubes of T-grade medigel sealant, then set back to cleaning the mess of fallen tools and equipment the ship's gravity adventures had tossed about her lab.

–

_Slam. _

The noise seemed to shake the whole deck.

Chakwas did not know how you could slam a pneumatic door, but somehow Shepard managed to do just that. She stood to watch as the better part of the ground team came pouring out of the elevator in a tangle of angry faces and exhausted bodies. Shepard came at the procession's head, face resolute in ignoring (who else?) Miranda, who followed with an equal expression of exasperation, shouting about something. Tali and Garrus were not far behind.

"Dr. Chakwas!" Shepard bellowed, stepping into the room reeking and filthy from battle. Chakwas knew immediately that something was very wrong. "Prep for surgery." He did not bother waiting for a response, and turned. "Mordin, you're fit to work?"

The salarian looked a little droopy but unhurt, and nodded. "Indeed."

"Then I want you to take care of any injuries."

Mordin nodded and turned, but not before tossing Chakwas a ponderous look, the intelligence lurking behind his enormous eyes bidding her be careful. As usual, however, he did not deign to tell her how to do her job, and exited with a nod, dragging a limping Zaeed along behind him.

Chakwas was momentarily blindsided as her lab filled up with soldiers, but all the same immediately headed for her surgical tools. "What kind of surgery will I be performing, Commander?" she asked, pulling a sterile gown out of its autoclave bag.

Shepard was already pulling his gloves off. "Eye surgery," he said. "I'm done." He pointed dramatically at his glowing eyes. "These are coming out." His face was dead serious. "Now."

So something _had _gone wrong on the collector ship. So much for a good day. Everybody was shouting, then, but Chakwas just sighed. So it had come to this. She had hoped Shepard would have made his peace with Cerberus by now – not because she agreed with them, but because she didn't think the man needed anything else on his plate. Still, he was the commander. If he thought getting his eye cameras deactivated was worth the risk, she was in no position to argue.

"There are sterile wipes on the shelf at your left hand," she directed, gesturing past him. "Rinse in the sink and then use them to clean your face thoroughly. And I'm going to need access to your chest." Shepard complied without hesitation, yanking off his heavy chestpiece and letting it drop to the floor without a thought. She pulled out a fiberglass case of surgical tools and set to preparing the anesthetic gas.

Chakwas seemed the only one ready to let him go through with it. "You can't do this, Shepard!" Miranda was demanding, grabbing at the commander's arm and leaving a streak of soot and dust (most of it from Tuchanka – the poor woman hadn't had a chance to clean since returning from the krogan homeplanet). She looked wild – almost desperate as Shepard dunked his head under the sink and vigorously rubbed the filth out of his hair.

"I _am _doing it." Shepard said as soon as he'd surfaced, dripping all over the floor. Chakwas handed him a towel and he dried, hopping up to sit on one of the gurneys. "The Illusive Man has gone too far this time. I won't be thrown into traps whenever he has a hunch."

"It was a calculated risk, Shepard," Miranda insisted. "No one was hurt!"

Shepard ignored her, fastidiously wiping the rest of the grime from his eyes and cheeks with one of Chakwas' wipes. "Samara." The asari stepped forward from where she'd been lurking in the doorframe without a word, a nexus of calm in the anger around her. "If you would escort Ms. Lawson to her quarters, please. I'd like her to remain there until further notice."

Samara nodded and grabbed for Miranda, who looked positively stunned. The woman turned to Chakwas. "At least let me help, Doctor. I can help you!"

Chakwas said nothing.

"It is time to go," Samara intoned, and grabbed Miranda by the arm. Miranda yanked her arm away, glaring daggers at the asari, but Samara was unmovable. The Normandy's XO found herself without ally, stuck between the commander and his loyal biotic. She stared at each of them in disbelief but no one would be dissuaded.

Miranda said nothing as she stormed out of her own accord, Samara following behind. Most of the others followed without complaint, until only Garrus and Tali remained.

"Listen," Shepard said, as soon as the door slid closed and they were alone. "All of you."

They listened.

"This is it," he said, and he sounded weary again. Wearier than he wanted Miranda to see him, no doubt. "I'm not going to let this happen anymore. I'm not going to let Cerberus put my team in danger. Even if it means fighting back." He stared at each of them. "If they're going to throw us into traps, we can't work with them. Simple as that."

"So we'll get off," Tali suggested. "Get Joker to drop us off on the Citadel and go back to the Alliance. You don't have t-"

"No," Shepard interrupted. "We need this ship. We need EDI. It has to be us." He paused, and Chakwas knew he was right. "I'm ending this," he said, waving at his eyes. "All of this. But I don't know what Miranda will do. What Illusive Man will do. What any of them will do." He paused again. "If they try something, I want you to fight back."

"Shepard…"

"Fight back," Shepard repeated, staring at Garrus. "_Do what it takes_. We need this ship. Can you do that?"

Garrus had a determined sheen to his eyes. "Of course, Commander," he said.

Shepard smiled and slapped Garrus on the back. "You're in charge then," he said, smiling. "I'll try to heal fast." He turned to Chakwas. "How long will I be out, Doctor?"

"That will depend on what you want me to do. Either way we'll need to drill behind your eye sockets to get at the implants' antennae. It'll be a few days out of commission, at least. But if you actually want the eyes removed? A week. Two weeks. Frankly, Commander, I think we should wait until we have replacements to put in their stead."

Shepard frowned. "No," he insisted. "We're doing it now." He turned to Tali. "Tali is going to help you turn these off." He grinned at her.

Tali seemed to shrink, eyes widening. "N… no, Shepard. I can't. I can't do it."

Shepard sighed and leaned back on the gurney. "Alright then," he said, waving a hand. "Scoop them out. I'll just be blind for a while."

Chakwas nodded and helped him slip the breather mask over his face. The gas gave a pleasant hiss. He shut his eyes behind it and breathed deeply as she adjusted the valves for the anesthetic.

"Nonononononono," Tali wrung her hands. "Shepard! Don't... you shouldn't…" She looked up at Chakwas, her glowing eyes pleading for help, but Chakwas offered none, instead watching Shepard's pulse as the commander began to slip away. It was mean, what the commander was doing to the quarian girl, but it wasn't her place to sabotage him.

Chakwas opened her case of gleaming obsidian scalpels and Tali stifled a squeal, staring at the wickedly-sharp blade Chakwas selected. There was an almost audible snap as the poor girl's nerves broke.

"I'll do it I'll do it I'll do it I'll do it I'll do it!"

Chakwas and Garrus looked at her for a moment. Tali was breathing hard, like the choice itself had winded her. "Clean up then, Dear," Chakwas said, smiling behind her mask and shooing the turian away. "We have work to do."

_–_

_Three hours later…_

_–_

Chakwas pulled off her mask and leaned over the sink, feeling the cool water speckle her forehead. Little rivulets of blood from her gloves traced reddish streaks down the vacuum drain. She felt she had very nearly sweated half her weight away. Her sterile gown felt like a parka. Some part of her wondered if the ship's power surge hadn't knocked down the climate control, or if she was simply feeling the flush of adrenaline that always came with delicate surgery.

She was most assuredly _not _an ophthalmologist. She was well versed in plugging gushing arteries, mending torn skin and sinew – she'd even reattached a limb or two in her time, but the delicacy of eye surgery (even when there was no actual eye to operate on) was a rare challenge and she'd held a knot of tension inside her ever second longer it took to complete.

But it had gone fine. Shepard was fine. The eyes' antennae had been clipped, and everything had gone back into place without any unresolvable complications – there'd been a tiny bleed when Chakwas had drilled a little too deeply under Shepard's left eye, but it had done more damage to Tali than to Shepard.

Chakwas felt the knot releasing.

She turned, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm. Tali was still perched overtop of Shepard's sleeping form, a pensive look on her mask. _Her _knot had most assuredly notreleased yet.

Chakwas felt for the poor girl. Shepard had pushed her somewhere she didn't want to go, manipulated her with the loyalty he knew she had. It hadn't been a nice thing to do. But he had been right and she'd come through for him.

Tali almost jumped when Chakwas set a hand on her shoulder. "He's fine, Dear."

Tali's gaze returned to Shepard's bandaged face. "My omni-tool can't reach his eyes' diagnostics," she mumbled. "I'm not sure if they'll still work."

"Then he'll be blind until we can get him to a proper facility to repair them," Chakwas said, squeezing Tali's shoulder. "Don't worry. You did great." She stopped and pulled off her gloves, tossing them into the biohazard box. "A lot of people are nervous around blood," she observed. Tali had kept good control over herself – even with her shoulders shaking her hands had been rock steady – but Chakwas could see even through the mask how much effort it was taking her not to dump the whole bottle of disinfectant onto Shepard's face.

"It isn't the blood," Tali said. "It's the… openness." She looked around the medbay with a tone of disgust that might have been offensive coming from anyone else. "It's so open in here. And dirty. Quarian surgeons never enter the same room as their patient. It's just… I forget humans don't have the same problems we do."

"We do, Tali," Chakwas assured her. "But not in a proper facility with state of the art life support."

Tali nodded. "The speculums _are _creepy though," she said, shaking her head.

"Shepard's a healthy man," Chakwas said. "And he's been through a lot worse than a metal lever in the eye. All he needs now is rest. The drugs should keep him down for another few hours. I figure that's the only way to make him sleep." She slipped out of her gown and pulled out her hair tie, feeling the blessed feeling of air on her scalp. "I, however, am simply dying to get out of this lab."

Tali didn't move. "Can I stay?"

"You don't want some fresh air?"

Tali's breather gave a sarcastic _hiss_. "I want to stay with him."

Chakwas gave Tali's shoulder one last squeeze and nodded. She turned for the door, but stopped at the threshold to look back at the quarian. "I notice you left the eyes' glowing intact," she observed, not quite keeping the grin off her face.

Tali looked at her toes. "…I like the glowing…" she admitted.

Chakwas smiled. "He's lucky to have you, Miss Zorah."

–

Chakwas stepped out into the cooler air of the crew deck and stretched. It was crowded, most of the crewmembers still hard at work cleaning up the damage done by the gravity failure. Gardner's food stores had been particularly hard hit, and the mess sergeant was overseeing the cleanup with all the fire of a drill sergeant. She supposed it must have been a treat for him to get to lecture computer prodigies and shipwrights about the proper way to clean a floor.

Chakwas felt a great presence loom behind her. Grunt stank of blood and smoke, but it was something in the _sound _of him – perhaps the great thud of his footsteps or just the thrumming of his hearts in his armored chest – that made him seem to fill up the room.

"Chalk-haired Doctor," Grunt rumbled, and Chakwas turned to look up at the massive krogan. She took a reflexive step or two back, but if Grunt took offense he gave no indication.

"Dr. Chakwas is fine," she said, eyeing the great reptile with no small wariness. She had seen what he had done to Garrus.

"Dr. Chakwas," Grunt amended. "How fares the Battlemaster?"

Chakwas smiled. "He will be fine, Grunt. He will have to rest for a day or two."

"His vision," Grunt asked. "It is intact?" He stared intensely at her.

"It should be."

Grunt nodded, satisfied. "Good. He will need his eyes. Here." Grunt held out a massive arm. Clutched in his fist was a bottle of room-temperature water and what Chakwas suspected was the rear half of a frozen chicken, still frozen but raggedly bit off through its midsection.

"What is this?"

"Food and water," Grunt said, eyeing her expectantly. He dumped the gifts into her grip and gave another satisfied nod. At her confused look, he gestured to the medbay. "The Battlemaster trusts you," he explained. "You are my _krannt_."

Chakwas stared at the half-eaten chicken with amazement. "Umm… thank you, Grunt."

Grunt stared at her expectantly until she opened the water bottle and took a swig, tucking the chicken's remains under her arm. He beamed. "There is more," he announced.

_Oh boy. _"Oh?"

Grunt nodded. "Tactical advice. I have been scouting. The Cerberus troops are preparing for battle," he said, clearly immensely proud of himself. "The female, Miranda. She is speaking to her _krannt_. The dark skinned one and the hidden man."

Chakwas' face fell. "Grunt… that doesn't mean-"

"That one," Grunt continued, gesturing towards one of the computer specialists, who was stooped over, collecting fallen ration bars. "He is spying for her. A scout." The indicated specialist did not look any different to Chakwas, but Grunt stared at him with unconcealed hatred. "Do you speak for the Battlemaster?" Grunt asked, eyes not leaving the man. "Should I kill the scout?"

Chakwas' eyes widened. "No… no!" She stared at Grunt, summoning the strictest face she could. "No, Grunt. Keep… keep _tactical observation_ on him," she suggested. "For now. Perhaps he will…" She paused, thinking, "perhaps he will lead you to other scouts."

Grunt grinned and nodded. "Yes. That is clever. Very clever, Chalk-haired Doctor. I will let him spy for now."

"Don't make a move without Sh… err… the Battlemaster's approval. He's the Battlemaster for a reason, you know."

Grunt nodded, utterly convinced. "Of course. I will wait."

Chakwas let out a quiet sigh. This was getting out of hand already. War was brewing, and Shepard had only been gone for two hours. Whatever he'd done to Grunt down on Tuchanka seemed to have worked, but now he had a krogan lieutenant who would apparently interpret Cerberus' scheming as an attack and respond in kind. It was not a good time for the only person who could control him to be under anesthesia. It could only go poorly.

"Thank you for the food," she said, raising a hand to pat Grunt on the shoulder before thinking better of it. "Stay… stay vigilant." She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say, but Grunt seemed to like it, and returned to his post outside the medbay, blue-white eyes still whirling to follow every move the crew made.

As soon as she was confident the krogan was not looking, however, Chakwas made a beeline for the XO's quarters.

_–_

_Thud._

From her position on the floor, Miranda had to look up to stare at the ragged half chicken Chakwas had dumped on her desk. If the bird hadn't been cooked before, it certainly was after the sweltering gaze the ship's XO gave it.

"What do _you _want?" Miranda demanded, returning her attention back to the floor. Contrary to Grunt's suspicions, Miranda was in fact _not _in conference with the Illusive Man or her lieutenant, but instead on her hands and knees, feverishly scrubbing her floor.

"Samara let me pass," Chakwas said, calmly taking a seat. "Are you alright, dear?"

Miranda said nothing, moving on to scrub a tile Chakwas was sure she'd already been over. The room was spotless, like it had never lost gravity at all – Miranda had apparently already restored all of her fallen datapads and other belongings to their proper place – but she remained hellbent on polishing the floor until it shined. Chakwas watched the woman clean and knew it had very little to do with dirt.

"What do you want?" Miranda repeated when she'd reached the end of one line and started on another.

"To ask you a favor," Chakwas said quietly.

Miranda didn't look up.

"Stop this," Chakwas continued. "Please."

Miranda looked up. "I didn't do anything," she growled. "The Illusive Man left _me _out of his little plan too."

"Then you are as mad at him as Shepard?"

"No," Miranda snapped, "I'm not. It was a calculated risk. If the Illusive Man had told Shepard it could have tipped the collectors off in any number of ways. It's how Cerberus does things."

"It isn't how Shepard does things," Chakwas said.

"No," Miranda agreed, gritting her teeth as she scrubbed with renewed vigor, until Chakwas almost expected the flooring panels to come off under her fingers. "No, Shepard chooses to play his little power game and take himself out of commission at the _Worst. Possible. Time."_ A lock of her freshly-cleaned hair had come out of place and hung ignored in front of her face, giving her a crazed look.

"I don't know what to believe," Chakwas said. "I wasn't there. But I have served on a great many ships, and I do know what a disaster in the making looks like." She sighed. "Perhaps you think you are entitled to Shepard's loyalty. Perhaps you are. But Shepard is ready to go to _war_ with Cerberus. He means to fight you. You need to know what that means."

"We saved him," Miranda insisted.

"I know. And I thank you for that every second of every day. You have sacrificed so much to bring him back to us. But he is a stubborn man and he will fight until he dies again if he is convinced that is what's right."

Miranda ignored her, face drawn in what Chakwas was sure was supposed to be an unconcerned expression, but that instead came across as very much at the end of its leash. The woman clearly needed some rest. A vacation, even – she'd been in the field for the last several days and had skipped the crew's shore leave on Illium. Who knew how many months it had been since she'd had a day off?

Chakwas found her eyes drawn to the trashcan by Miranda's desk, where a few neatly framed (and obviously doctored) photographs of her in a wedding gown, arm in arm with a tuxedoed Mordin Solus had been broken and discarded. She hated herself for wanting to smile at that – Kasumi's work, no doubt – but managed to hold it in. Miranda had done a great deal to burn bridges with Shepard and those loyal to him, but it was hard not to feel sorry for her as she was now, locked in her office and scrubbing like a madwoman, her allies dwindling and a prepubescent krogan waiting outside trying to think up all the ways to kill her in Shepard's name.

"Miranda…" Chakwas said, voice quiet.

Miranda moved onto the next row of tiles, purposefully turning away.

"I don't want you to be hurt," Chakwas finished. "I don't want anyone to be hurt."

"People get hurt, Doctor," Miranda spat.

"Only if we let them. I beg you. Please. Make peace with Shepard. Compromise. Stop this before it's too late."

Miranda said nothing.

"He'll forgive you, Miranda," she said. "You can still find an ally in him," she said.

"Or my worst enemy," Miranda interrupted, her hands finally stilling. Her head drooped. "I know."

"No," Chakwas said. "Shepard doesn't have the heart to be your enemy. Not really." She stood up to leave. She paused, weighing her next words. "But perhaps Grunt does."

**–**

* * *

**Codex Entry: Select communiqués from the terminal of Operator Miranda Lawson, head of Lazarus Cell and current XO of the SR2.**

_From: Corporal S. M. Walker, SSV Marathon (smwalker(at)SEC-SebtL719_ali)_  
_Sent: 1.2.2184 4:22:02 EST_  
_To: Admiral S. J. Hackett, Arcturus Station (ahackett(at)SEC-GedaL005_ali)_  
_Subject: Re: Re: Re: Honorable discharge for EM Kenneth Donnelly, #113824_  
_–_

_You won't, sir. I'll make sure of it._

_Corporal Walker._

_–_  
_ORIGINAL MESSAGE:_  
_From: Admiral S. J. Hackett, Arcturus Station (ahackett(at)SEC-GedaL005_ali)_  
_Sent: 1.1.2184 13:10:26 EST_  
_To: Corporal S. M. Walker, SSV Marathon (smwalker(at)SEC-SebtL719_ali)_  
_Subject: Re: Re: Honorable discharge for EM Kenneth Donnelly, #113824_  
_–_

_Don't make me regret this, Corporal._

_Hackett_

_–_  
_From: Operator Miranda Lawson, Lazarus Cell (solheim(at)020NLaz_ext)_  
_Sent: 1.14.2184 8:10:10 EST_  
_To: Operator Samuel Harrison, Hephaestus Cell (sharris(at)020NHeph_ext)_  
_Subject: Request denied._  
_–_

_Operator Harrison,_

_While we appreciate your work with Hephaestus Cell's recent SR2 and Atlas projects, I am afraid we cannot terminate Gabriella Daniels from the SR2 engineering crew at your request._

_As you know, we employ only the best humanity has to offer, and your daughter comes very highly recommended. Until her recent resignation, she sported a near spotless performance record in the Alliance Engineer Corps. She received official commendations for excellence of service after the battle at the Citadel and was considered first in line for promotion to chief engineer on the Perugia. Were it not for her disciplinary record I am sure she would have gone far, and I firmly believe she will flourish in Cerberus, where her history of breaching authority and independent thinking will be a boon rather than a liability._

_While the SR2's mission is dangerous, I assure you the ship is well equipped with the latest safety technologies – after all, you designed them yourself._

_It goes without saying your request for Kenneth Donnelly's exclusion for the mission is also denied._

_Operator Miranda Lawson, Lazarus Cell_

_–_  
_From: Operator Miranda Lawson, Lazarus Cell (solheim(at)020NLaz_ext)_  
_Sent: 7.30.2184 19:19:45 EST_  
_To: Operative Jacob Taylor, Lazarus Cell (jaytay(at)020NLaz_ext)_  
_Subject: CMO recruitment_  
_–_

_Lieutenant_

_The plan is in motion. At approximately 0800 tomorrow your ship will experience a nonlethal hull breach in orbit over Mars. The captain will make an emergency landing at the Alliance hospital in Lowell City – we have arranged for Helen Chakwas to be on shift. You will take Mr. Moreau to her under pretense of a physical checkup for decompression sickness. Get them talking about Cerberus. The Illusive Man believes he will break his NDA and mention project Lazarus to her without undue prompting. If not, take Moreau back to the ship and proceed as before._

_-Miranda_

_(PS: And try not to let your conscience get in the way again, Jacob. I'm not asking you to lie, just keep your mouth shut. You can do that, can't you?)_

_–_  
_From: Operator Miranda Lawson, Lazarus Cell (solheim(at)020NLaz_ext)_  
_Sent: 5.18.2185 10:59:02 EST_  
_To: Operative Jacob Taylor, Lazarus Cell (jaytay(at)020NLaz_ext)_  
_Subject: Final crew list_

_Please see attached the final crew list. I expect your clearance checks on the new additions to be complete by the end of the month._

_Also, please re-investigate Ms. Chambers._

_-Miranda_

–  
ATTACHMENT:  
–

Final crew roster for SR2 project – 31 total, excludes ground team and any necessary ground team support staff, to be added at a later date.

Command personnel -  
Commanding officer (CO) – John Shepard  
Executive Officer (XO) – Miranda Lawson  
Chief Helmsman – Jeff Moreau  
Chief Medical Officer (CMO) – Helen Chakwas  
Security Chief – Jacob Taylor

Security personnel –  
Joshua Gibbs  
Burt Tennard

Engineering personnel -  
Ken Donnelly (aeronautical – antimatter annihilation reactor power, mass effect fields, shielding)  
Gabriella Daniels (aeronautical – propulsion)  
Kate Winsip (weaponry)  
Gi Breen (weaponry)

Administrative/logistical personnel -  
Mess Sergeant – Rupert Gardner  
Yeoman – Kelly Chambers

Payload specialists -  
Connor Bryon  
Karl Hass  
Aidan Nelson  
Marta Orell

AIE instrumentation specialists:  
Patel (Darwinian AI programming/AI psychology)  
Anna Curie (Navigation)  
Lawrence Hadley (Heuristic scanners)  
Yasir Abraham (AI-assisted targeting/threat recognition)  
Andrew Kappel (AI systems networking/PAVLOV/damage sensors)

Operations technicians:  
Martin Wheelok(Intranetwork and communications)  
Kelvin Rolston (Intranetwork and communications)  
Nathaniel Hawthorne (SR2 copilot, Kodiak operations)  
Marie Goldstein (Life support - atmospheric)  
Asma Alvarsson (Life support – water and waste)  
Vinay Tyler (Life support - heat management/climate control)

Other specialists:  
Cailin Cote (Planetology, exometeorology)  
Louis Matthews (optics)  
Geoff Kleid (Fuel chemistry, nuclear power)

**–**

* * *

**A/N: **Another chapter!

So, insert all my usual 'I love this character' gushing here. I think one of the things ME2 really had over ME1 was the more believable Normandy, which was in large part due to these five here. I hope to see them come back with even bigger roles in ME3 (especially the two engineers, who are an especially fun pair). Given unlimited time and patience I would have written a whole chapter for each character here. Hopefully what I _have _written does them proper justice.

You'll note Joker isn't here. There's a reason for that, of course.

So... Chapter 20 is huge. Like stupid, stupid huge. And complicated. And, as aforementioned, splits perspectives between twelve characters. I've actually been working on it pretty hard since I released chapter 18 and it still took me more than a month to write. I'm gonna try to start writing more manageable chapters if I can. I think this chapter's length is about right (or even a little on the long side).

Considering how much text I just sent him to work on (surely approaching the LD50 value for writing), this seems as good a time as any to again give my sincere thanks to my beta Angurvddel, who has remained enormously helpful.

And then you all, the readers, the reviewers, the PM'ers, and everybody else!

(PS: Some people reviewed the last chapter with questions that I would have loved to answer, but had PM-ing disabled. My apologies if you didn't get a response from me!)


	20. Chapter 20, Retrograde, the Squad

**Retrograde – The Squad**

* * *

–

Shepard sat in his quarters and listened to the aquarium.

He was blind.

Not permanently, he hoped. Tali and Dr. Chakwas had told him the surgery had gone without undue event, and that it was simply a matter of waiting until the tissue around his eyes was a little stronger before reactivating the Condyles. Just wait and sleep and heal and wait, and in a day or two he'd be back in the fight, sans two spy cameras.

But even with the painkillers Chakwas had been giving him, the waiting was killing him.

He knew Garrus had the ship well in hand, he knew there was no rush. A few days where all he could do was sleep was exactly what he'd been praying for.

But he couldn't sleep. The darkness where his vision used to be – not just the muffled light of closed eyelids or a lampless room, but true and utter emptiness – was too cold. Reminded him too much of the hiss of escaping air and the feeling that that _nothingness _was seeping into his suit, choking all the somethingness away. The white noise of the Normandy's life support units – normally almost undetectable – seemed to roar until his ears rattled. He felt every heartbeat hammer against his chest. Felt every whirr and click of his mechanically-altered joints.

But none of that compared to the memories. It was like the floodgates had opened up, and all the bits and pieces that he'd left in orbit around Alchera were crashing back into him.

_–_

_10 years previously…_

It was the fifth day of his attempted binge drinking session, and that was the really pathetic thing about it.

Five days of showing up at the same bar with every intention of drinking until his head exploded, and he hadn't managed to get past a faint buzz. He'd do the whole ritual, the way he'd always imagined civilians drank when they wanted to forget _their _troubles. He'd order a whole bottle of the strongest alcohol he could think of and he'd slam back a shot or two.

And then he'd get to thinking. And then before he knew it it was closing time and the musicians were packing up their holographic instruments and he'd barely touched the bottle.

It had been drinking that had gotten him shoved into mandatory shore leave on Elysium – furtive draughts from a flask between training sessions, or even sneaking off during them while his trainees were too exhausted running laps to notice his absence – but now that he was stuck on this backwater and was free to do it without consequence, it wasn't doing it for him.

What had Mars said to him? That he was self-sabotaging. That seemed about right now.

Shepard scowled at the thought of his former friend as he leaned up against the bar and ordered the same bottle for the fifth time. The bartender – an old human man with great pelts of wooly hair on his arms but none on his head – had it ready for him tonight, along with the raised-eyebrow-of-confusion. Or maybe it was the raised-eyebrow-of-judgment. Shepard had seemed to get that a lot planetside. It was his first excursion onto solid ground that hadn't involved a hardsuit in half a decade and it seemed all the locals knew it.

He ignored the old man's condescension, took his drink, and dragged it to the empty corner booth as far away from the stage as he could get. He set up camp in the same spot as always, poured himself the same first shot as always, and drained it in a single gulp like always. It burned as it went down and he forced himself to pour a second.

He drank that too. So fast he couldn't even taste it. Just to prove that he could. He started pouring a third.

And he started wondering if holier-than-thou Anderson had ever soloed a whole bottle in a night before. He suspected not. The potato-faced hero had looked at him like he was scum as he'd sentenced him to forced shore leave for as long as it took him to get his act back together. Two generations of Alliance poster boys had stared each other down but Shepard had blinked and now here he was.

He could tell Anderson had wanted to hit him harder. Maybe even discharge him. But even Anderson held only so much sway, and the Alliance wasn't about to let John Goddamn Shepard face charges anytime soon. They had too much invested in his reputation to let a little thing like alcoholism taint it. He was top of his class, the youngest cadet in the Special Forces program, the son of two decorated officers in the Alliance Navy. He had set course records at the Academy. He had been fast-tracked into officer training and was already teaching combat drills to the next crop of soldiers. He was a product of the new Alliance, one of the first of the new generation of marines who'd been born after the Martian ruins were unearthed, a finely-tuned, finely-trained supersoldier. Twenty two years old and a certified deathdealer. He was there for everyone – human and alien alike – to see what kind of soldiers the Alliance could field.

If it had been up to them he would have gotten another quiet slap on the wrist and gotten right back to it. So long as he was the perfect poster boy on paper, he could drink and everybody looked the other way.

But not Anderson. Anderson had been visibly furious when he found out what had been happening on Arcturus. He'd stared Shepard in the eye and kicked him out on his ass without a beat of hesitation. Forced him to leave the Special Forces with an N5 and tossed him off the _Nobel _so fast Shepard hadn't had a chance to try to schmooze his way out of it.

Now he was stuck on Elysium, where the mud stuck to your shoes and the air was hot and muggy and people _farmed _for a living. It was a colony of grays and blacks, its atmosphere and soil perfect for Earth life but its sun colorless and weak. It was a colony so depressingly dreary its colonial sponsor had spent billions on a set of vast, solar-powered sails that fluoresced with a more familiar light spectrum overtop the cities, injecting a bit of color in a (futile, as far as Shepard was concerned) gesture to improve the colony's reputation as bleak and awful.

He'd taken it in stride at first. As soon as he'd made planetfall on Elysium he'd gotten right back to training himself, running laps around the colony. He'd run a circuit that took him far into the Greylands that he nearly passed out from heat exhaustion. He'd climb hills (which still boggled his space-raised mind a little bit) and lift weights and practice imaginary firearm drills and push and push and push.

But the days had gone by and he'd not gotten an invitation to come back yet. And then he'd decided if he was going to be punished for drinking he was going to drink hard.

Yet even as he tried, his mind was back out there, training and pushing and testing and wishing he could go back and get his N7.

–

Shepard's third shot was still undisturbed in its glass when the turians arrived. He didn't notice them at first – aliens of all kinds were a common sight on Elysium, even though they mostly kept to their own districts – but before long the mere inhuman-nessof their presence drew his eye even from behind his storm of thoughts. Six or seven of them, most of them in matching cloth uniforms marking them as employees of some company or another, flocked into the bar, clucking to each other in their weird, flanged voices and bobbing their heads like armored birds.

He'd never seen a turian before coming to Elysium – not in person, anyway. He'd seen pictures by the dozen. Knew all their major technologies, the tactics they liked to use in battle, every damn detail of the First Contact War. It had been eighteen years since the fighting had stopped – eighteen years since humans had learned how peaceful the galaxy could be – and yet the turians were still very much the model foe to be prepared for. Young men and women cut their teeth on stories of the turians' martial efficiency, their viciousness towards civilians, their speed and strength and even – in some of the more extreme stories – their hatred for the human way of life.

Shepard was smart enough to know that most of it was bullshit, especially considering all the real alien fighting in his lifetime had been against batarians, but he couldn't deny the skull-faced monsters were scarier by far.

Unfortunately, his plan to pointedly ignore the aliens was rudely interrupted when one of them slid into the bench next to him, nursing a drink of its own (bright blue and bubbly, Shepard noted, and plastered with warnings about allergic reactions).

Shepard cleared his throat, hoping the monster would move on, but it did not seem to notice. It held its drink up and lapped at it like a cat, its attention clearly elsewhere.

"You want something, Little Green?" Shepard asked eventually.

The turian cocked its – _her, _Shepard decided – head and peered down at him. "Humans like their fours," she observed, as if she hadn't heard him.

Shepard didn't get a chance to ask what that meant.

"It's a very odd number to choose, four," the turian continued. "It shows up in all of your music. Four beats. Four tones. Four chords. Patterns of four. You don't have four fingers or four toes or four eyes. It's a strange number to choose." Her throat _click-click-click_ed in time to the bar's music, absently counting out fours.

"Fascinating," Shepard said. "Go away."

The turian looked at him without an emotion he could read. "No. This bench is common space. Collective. I will sit here." She went back to her counting, and Shepard found himself watching the rhythmic ululation of the skin under her throat. He frowned and looked away, returning his attention to his drink. He picked up the shot and looked at it.

"Turian music uses threes," the turian supplied after Shepard had finally managed to ignore her.

Shepard scowled. "Can't you keep this to yourself?"

The turian's mandibles fluttered. Maybe that meant she was amused. Or angered. Shepard couldn't remember which. "I could," she said, and her tone was amused. "But I like saying it to aliens. It is like using a human idiom. There is no point in misusing it unless there is a human around to correct you."

"You like being corrected?"

"I like seeing them realize how unintuitive their idioms are. It is like getting brass tacks down."

"What does that-" Shepard stopped as he realized the turian was smiling at him. He grimaced, realizing she was exactly right – what did brass tacks have to do with anything?

"I am Madine," the turian said, grabbing his hand before he could pull it away. Her long talons wrapped around his in a way that almost made him shiver, but all the same her handshake was firm and well-executed – a fact of which she was obviously immensely proud. "Retired gunnery officer for the First Illustrious Anruvvus Platoon."

"I'm Shepard," Shepard admitted, pulling his hand away.

"Always nice to meet a fellow soldier," Madine quipped. Her gray eyes twinkled and Shepard found himself wondering how old she was. She had said 'retired' but she didn't look any older – to his eyes, anyway – than any of the other turians he'd seen. She did have a pair of tiny glass lenses that appeared to have been glued to the plates beneath her eyes and looked uncannily like a lowered pair of bifocals, but otherwise she was smooth and taut and just as inscrutable as the rest of her species. In any case, she didn't _look _like a soldier. A zoo animal, maybe.

Shepard frowned and finally downed his third shot. "Yeah," he grunted, gritting his teeth as it went down. "Not sure that I am, anymore."

Madine gave a crackly purr that strummed up the length of her neck, and Shepard got the distinct impression she was laughing. Or trying not to laugh. "Last I heard, John Shepard was placed on shore leave, not discharged," she said.

Shepard glared at her.

"Aliens can read too, John Shepard," she said, tapping the bridge of her snout. "It is like a train of gravy." She flashed her teeth (entirely too razor sharp to look as charming as she meant it). Her mandibles flickered again, daring him to correct her.

Shepard didn't take the bait. "Good for you," he grunted, staring out the window at the great glowing thermal sails and wondering how much longer it would be before the sails switched off and the colony's artificial night would begin. "But it looks like you read wrong."

"I wonder if you are not being somewhat dramatic, John Shepard," Madine said. "I do not pretend to understand humans yet – not for lack of trying, you will mind – but I do not think they would casually toss aside one such as you. You are valuable to them."

"Not to Anderson."

"Ahh yes, David Anderson," she nodded knowingly. "He is known to me. No doubt, it must be difficult to put on his shoes. Of course, he would have discharged you or imprisoned you if he thought you could not recover."

Shepard looked up.

"He is responsible for you," Madine continued. "A commander must take care of those in his charge. Sometimes that requires punishment. It does not mean he is not caring for you."

Shepard snorted back a laugh and poured himself another drink. This was just what he needed, an intentionally idiom-smashing old lady lizardbird to help him forget the Alliance and drink his brains out. "Sure, Little Green, sure. He was doing me a _world _of good busting me out of the N program." He put the glass to his lips and drank, slower this time. It tasted better when you weren't trying to force it down, and he felt a calming bubbling by the time he'd drained it and set to refilling it again. "Never mind that I was practically teaching the other N5's already. Never mind that I'd completed the first four faster than anyone in history." He chuckled. "_Including _Anderson, mind you."

"Never mind that you are drinking on the job while you complain about being disciplined for drinking on the job," Madine added.

Shepard shrugged. "Not on the job anymore. Not a soldier. Do you see a gun on my back?" He turned his shoulders.

"No," Madine admitted, beady eyes narrowing, "but I see the Alliance-issue sidearm you have concealed in your left side pocket."

"So what?" He didn't trust the colonies enough to go down unarmed. He'd spent near on a decade now learning about all of the dangers the colonies faced on a regular basis. "Batarians aren't going to catch me without one."

Madine did her weird, throaty laugh again and reached into some kind of rigid compartment on her own back and pulled out a gleaming submachine gun. "So you are a fellow soldier," she insisted, setting the gun on the table for him to see. It was plain-looking, but meticulously clean – clearly Madine knew how to take care of it. Which meant she probably knew how to use it. "If you carry a gun, you are a soldier," she said, chest puffed up with pride (though whether it was pride at being a 'fellow soldier' or in how much more fearsome her concealed weapon was than Shepard's, it was hard to say.)

Shepard couldn't help but grin. "Touche, Little Green. Don't figure the batarians would be lucky to stumble onto you."

Madine looked delighted as she reclaimed her gun. "They are not so stupid to attack here," she insisted, carefully easing it back into her backpack shell.

Shepard shrugged. "Alliance disagrees," he said absently, tracing a finger across the rim of his glass. "I was on the _Nobel_, which is… not two relays away. _Agincourt_'s even closer. They don't patrol colonies they don't think are in danger."

"This is not just a human colony," Madine insisted, as if Shepard had claimed that it was. "Turians, salarians, asari. An attack on Elysium would be political suicide, even the batarians know this."

–

Madine was right – the batarians _did _know that.

But the biggest attack on a human colony was not led by batarians.

_–_

_2 hours later…_

The smell of smoke was already wafting in through the windows from the ship crash. The club was in chaos – half the patrons scrambling for cover under tables, the other half running out as fast as their legs could carry them.

They had all seen it. The distant roar of a capital ship dropping into atmosphere had dragged them to the window, human and turian alike, but none of them had been prepared to see a ship – hunchbacked and brown and _much _too large to be landing that fast – crash through the largest of the thermal sails, tearing it from its mass effect generators. The sound of twisting metal had been terrific as ship and sail alike crashed into the ground so hard the bar shook.

And then the air was filled with landing ships and explosions and the bar was full of screams.

Shepard was not a man to curse. His late father had always hated what he called 'baser vernacular' and had prided himself – and, by extension, his family – on more refined vocabularies.

If Captain Shepard had still been alive, however, he would be very disappointed in his son.

Shepard swayed on his feet and recited every invective he knew, listening to the sounds of dozens upon dozens of raider ships screaming through the atmosphere. The distant chatter of gunfire had started up overtop the even more distant wail of a klaxon.

Shepard was lost – just for a minute – but even drunk, his training kicked in. The colony was in danger and shore leave or not, he had to help. He scanned the room – the bartender had already made a run for it, and he stumbled to the abandoned taps to try to find some water. Something to clear his head.

He found a sink and drank greedily. The water sloshing atop all the booze in his stomach almost made him want to vomit, but he held it in, pausing briefly to scan the shelves behind the bar for a tucked away stash of head-meds. Even old-style aspirin.

Not likely. No time to waste looking. His head was spinning with plans. Elysium didn't have much in the way of static defense. There was a small garrison by the spaceport, but if the enemy had any brains at all they'd hit that hardest and first, to slow any reinforcements. Maybe if there were _three _garrisons they could hole up part of the terminals and keep the raiders at bay, so long as they were approaching by foot. Raiders didn't tend to bring much in the way of armored vehicles, but they'd have gunships harrying from the skies. That would make it hard to hold any building not built to withstand some ordnance.

Son of a bitch. Shepard fumbled in his pocket for his gun as he made for the door. He had to try. The pistol in his hand seemed to calm his spinning head a little as he stepped out onto the street. It was dark – the thermal sails that produced the city's Earth-style sunlight black and dormant – but Shepard could see the glow of fire to the west, where most of the human neighborhoods were. Two choices. Try to hold the spaceport or cut losses and try to help evacuate into the hills and hope they didn't overheat in the Greylands before the Alliance could come for them.

He turned west. The garrison would have to do without his one drunken ass wielding one little pistol.

"John Shepard!"

He didn't make it three steps before he stopped and turned.

The turians stood in the doorway of the bar, beady eyes glaring at him. Madine was in front, head cocked at the end of her long neck, as if demanding explanation.

"I have to help," he grunted at her, and turned away.

"With that thing?" Madine snapped, stopping him with a clawed hand on his shoulder. He tried to brush her off until he felt her press the handle of her gun into his grip. It was heavy and wide, mostly too big for a human hand, but it felt good. It felt powerful.

Shepard stared at her, confused, but she was already busy showing him how to flip off the safety and adjust the tiny scope. Shepard gave her a nod. "Thanks, Little Green."

Madine shrugged (as well as someone with a rigid shell over her ribcage could shrug,) "I've got two more at the monastery," she said. "Though I am not Little, nor Green."

Shepard grinned. "This one's not arbitrary. Little Green Man. LGM. Alien." He pocketed his pistol and, gripping the heavy turian gun, turned west again

"What do you want us to do?"

Shepard paused and turned again. "I don't have time for this, Mad-" he stopped as his mind caught up. The turians – all seven of them – stared at him with equal expressions that somehow Shepard could read perfectly. It was bravery. Anger. Resolution. Strength. They had that gleam in their eyes.

They meant it.

"We mean it," Madine insisted, and she had the gleam most of all. "You are the highest ranking officer here. What are your orders?"

"I'm the highest ranking _Alliance _officer. And even then, only barely," Shepard protested.

The turians just stared. They didn't care. "You are a lieutenant," Madine explained. "On Palaven, you are tier ten. You outrank us. We will follow." The other turians nodded their agreement and stared at him expectantly. They wanted to help. Never mind that the raiders had landed in the human districts, never mind that their species had been at war. These aliens were ready to die to save human lives.

He'd never felt so small.

"Orders?" Madine asked again.

It took Shepard several seconds to grasp the enormity of that, and it didn't have anything to do with the alcohol. He had a small army of aliens that wanted him to tell them what to do.

Holy _shit._

His mind raced. Some part of him wanted to turn them down, just tell them to go deal with their own neighborhoods. But he knew the raiders weren't after the turian quarters. They would be slaving for humans. He _needed _these aliens if he was going to do any good at all.

He remembered Madine's gun. "Turians like guns, yes?"

Madine nodded emphatically. "Very much."

"If we go to turian town, will we find guns there? Or soldiers?"

The turians all clucked and nodded agreement. "Both," Madine said. "Lots of little greens. We are all fellow soldiers." Her mandibles flickered.

Shepard took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Then we go there. Get what we can, then double back to the spaceport and try to hold it until help arrives. You can show me what turian soldiers can do."–

* * *

_Presently…_

–

Luckily, it turned out turian soldiers could do a _lot_. It was almost sickening, really, how much credit he had been given for the Blitz. How he had 'single-handedly' held off the batarian invaders for two days until the Alliance Navy had finally broken through.

He had held his own, but if it hadn't been for the near a hundred turian ex-soldiers he and Madine had managed to call to arms, he and the other marines wouldn't have had a chance. Turians were fast, accurate, fearless, and obedient – not a one had balked at any of his orders, human or not.

And Madine had assured him later that not a one begrudged him all the credit he'd gotten for leading them. Personally he'd always doubted this, and even if it was true, _he'd _begrudged it plenty for himself.

Shepard was proud of his part in the Blitz. He was proud of his Star of Terra. He had always been blessed with talent but before then he'd never shown it to be good for anything.

But he was prouder of what came after. Prouder of turning down his invitation back into N training. Prouder of going to Palaven and suffering months of not being able to eat anything but freeze-dried rations so he could hunt down all the families of the turians who had died helping him. Palaven had been an awful world for a human, but that was where Shepard had decided what kind of person he was going to be. That was where he decided never to call any alien (except possibly for the one) a little green again. That was where he decided what his place in the galaxy would have to be.

And now here he was, blind on his ship while his turian second-in-command made the first steps in the inevitable clash between him and Cerberus. Here he was with a terminal drell and a baby krogan supersoldier and a salarian so smart his own kind called him genius. Here he was with a half-millenium old asari warrior pledged to fight to the death on his whim and a superbiotic psychopath. Here he was with a quarian girl who obsessed on him _way _more than was healthy for her, and a sentient computer, and a thief and a merc and a soldier and human perfection.

He laughed to himself.

It was funny how memories brought that into perspective.

How the _hell _had all this happened?

* * *

_22 years ago_…

–

Mordin was the last to be led into the Conclave chambers. Dozens of cameras, none-too-subtly hidden in the molding on the walls, followed him as he stepped down the length of the foyer flanked by two silent guards clad in the white-and-black emblem that represented the unified heart and mind of the Salarian species. The halls were spotless and beautiful but small – Mordin's horns almost grazed the ceiling in places. The symbolism was not lost on him either. Just as no Dalatrass could walk these halls, so too were their politics kept out.

He was entering a place of knowledge. Nothing was more sacred to the salarians.

The guards deposited him at the edge of the antechamber and Mordin obligingly stepped up to the carved podium that rested in the room's very center. The doors locked behind him with an imposing hiss. Up above him, the Conclave's investigators perched behind raised podiums of their own and checked their notes. Their white smocks were free of clan marking or logo, their faces free of judgment.

Mordin's podium had been readied for him. Holographic panels traced out dozens of notes and data feeds for the hearing, lists of evidence, all the relevant laws he'd broken, the names of the investigators who had proven his guilt. Mordin did not bother reading them. He simply sat in silence, hands folded before him.

After what felt like an eternity, the Conclave's spokes-salarian cleared his throat and stared down at Mordin. "Mannovai Ansilta Got Anna Ipso Solus Mordin," he said. "Are you ready to begin?"

"I am ready," Mordin said. He was calm.

The spokes-salarian nodded and tapped a command into his console. The chamber lights dimmed as the other consoles bloomed to life. Mordin's own console spit out a half dozen live camera feeds of each of the Conclave members and himself, along with a timer and a real-time VI transcript of their words.

"I am Professor Drerin," the lead salarian said, clearing his throat again. "Member of the Mannovai Conclave and keeper of the codices for this disciplinary hearing. You are aware, Mordin, that this session will be recorded in its entirely and added to the Codex?"

Mordin nodded. "Of course."

"We shall begin, then. Mordin of clan Solus. The conclave has concluded its investigation of your criminal actions. The investigation report's conclusions have been corroborated by Professor Altinn's team at the Jaehto Conclave. The peer review process is concluded and all data and conclusions upheld. The report and all supplementary data have been added to the codices for further review as necessary, but the critical points shall be summarized here." He cleared his throat yet again.

"Conclusion one: On the fifth day of the month of Toahte, standard calendar year 2163, Mannovai Ansilta Got Anna Ipso Solus Mordin, Assistant Professor of Genetics at Jahta University, used a self-developed heuristic decryption algorithm to bypass security at a Dalatrassi Commune facility." Mordin's console flickered with new data, including high definition footage of him doing just that. "Evidence includes security footage, genetic evidence, and the algorithm itself, as provided by Mordin to investigators." The other salarians clucked at each other and traded knowing glances.

"Conclusion two:" Drerin continued, licking his lips and proceeding to the next screen, "Once inside, Mordin used a suite of self-developed scripts to falsify critical data feeds associated with the political clan statistics monitors, resulting in a rearrangement of Dalatrass rankings that placed prominent clans Adlin, Asipi, and Solus behind minor clan Asta, resulting in widespread panic, an estimated one-hundred eighty-five thousand credits in economic damage, and over thirty-seven breeding contracts given to Asta despite being intended for other clans. Evidence includes security footage, breeding contract records, clan statistic records, and the scripts, as provided by Mordin to investigators." More nods. Of course any tampering with the Dalatrasses was frowned upon in salarian society, but Mordin had no doubt his audience had greatly enjoyed studying the mayhem he had caused – most political movements could be predicted well in advance by computers, so for someone to throw some chaos in the mix was a welcome change in pace for those who studied such things.

"Conclusion three: Using a variety of planted or otherwise fabricated evidence, Mordin framed half-brothers Eldrin, Somat, and Aeho, breeders for the Solus clan, for his crimes, resulting in their incarceration by the Conclave investigators for the fourteen days until Mordin turned himself in on Toahte twenty-first. Evidence includes computer activity records for omni-tools belonging to Eldrin, Somat, and Aeho, genetic evidence, and secondary security footage confirming the brothers' alibis."

Drerin fell silent for a moment, staring down at Mordin with a well-practiced expression of clinical detachment. "Barring future confounding evidence, this Conclave has endorsed all conclusions," he said, eyes boring into Mordin's.

Mordin nodded. He had expected no less. Indeed, he had _engineered _no less. Salarian justice left very little room for surprise. They were, as a species, obsessed with surveillance and data, experiments and verification – there was no innocence or guilt, no jury, no guesswork. There were only facts. And the facts were against Mordin.

"With no new data forthcoming," Drerin continued, "this hearing's primary purpose is to decide the appropriate corrective action to be taken." He cleared his throat. "Mordin of clan Solus. Do you have any closing comments regarding the specific situation leading to your actions that you believe the Conclave should consider?"

Mordin cleared his throat. "Indeed. Many."

"Present them."

Mordin addressed the entire Conclave. "Investigators. Would begin with tangent. Second disciplinary hearing here," he reminded them. He tapped the Lysenthi tattoo scrawled across his forehead. "Previous hearing called in response to this," he said. The room seemed to hush – indeed, it had been two years since Mordin had become the talk of the Union by daring to tattoo something so offensive so brazenly on his skull, and even well after his infamy had died down, the tattoo retained a weird power. "Did not go well," Mordin admitted. "Did not conduct self well. Was unrepentant. Invited harsh punishment. Dared it, even. Harsh punishment received."

He stared down at his toes. "Ashamed of that. Have grown accustomed to tattoo's aesthetic value, but have come to regret previous decisions. Did not wish to dishonor Solus clan. Was young. Rebellious. Stupid." He caught Drerin's eye. "Drerin was observer three for that hearing," he recalled, "Wrote in his notes 'Mordin Solus is a cloudhead and a troublemaker.'" He sighed. "True words. Fair."

"You have been cited for disruptive behavior fourteen times in your young life, Mordin," Drerin said. "Your codex entry is much longer than many salarians your age."

"Ahh, yes. True. Yes. But that phase ended now. Future codex entries shall report only achievements."

"A phase, you say?" Drerin arched one great brow.

Mordin nodded sharply. "Indeed. Phase. Childhood misbehavior. Was jealous of brothers. Upset by lack of breeding prospects. Believed self smartest individual in Solus clan. Worthiest of breeding. Still do."

"You are not of the breeder class," Drerin pointed out.

"No," Mordin agreed. "Disqualified by minor skin defect." He tapped at his face, at the color thereon. "Mutation at _lutB _locus. Results in rare pigmentation, minor scarring. Disqualifies from most breeding contracts. Also, of course, assigned to career as biologist. Extremely rare for salarians of my station to breed."

"A fact to which most salarians of your station are cheerfully resigned."

"Indeed." Mordin agreed. "Unfortunately, not the sort to be cheerfully resigned without sufficient convincing. Know there is a purpose for breeder class, for scientist class. Not a matter of individual freedom or entitlement. Simply… pride. Consider myself smartest individual in Solus clan," he repeated. "Skin defect minor. Genetics otherwise superior. Owe it to self, to clan, to species, to _galaxy _to pass on superior genes."

"Your brothers were selected for their roles for their genomes, Mordin," Drerin said. "And raised from birth for the sole purpose of breeding."

Mordin's eyes lit up. "Indeed!" he said. "Always comes back to genomes! Genetic material. Only the purest to be offered in breeding contracts. Brothers Eldrin, Somat, Aeho, surely paragons! Never mind stubborn ignorance. Never mind inability to grasp half of my work. Never mind obvious phenotypic inferiority. No, no. Superior genotypes. Surely!" He grinned toothily up at the older salarian. "Was… unconvinced. Understood role of epigenetics in translating genotype to phenotype, but believed intellectual differences too great to attribute thusly. Had to confirm. Perform experiment. But without access to genomes, could not validate claims of superior genes. Had own genome sequenced, annotated in free time. Easy. But needed brothers'. Dalatrass refused access. Breeders' genotypes restricted. Classified. Proprietary. Only to be revealed to prospective mate's clan Dalatrass. Unfortunate tradition." Mordin tapped at his chin in mock thought.

"With enormous political importance," Drerin reminded him.

"Indeed. Luckily for me, easy to circumvent. Knew it was standard procedure for Conclave to sequence genomes of all suspects in criminal cases for identification of genetic contributing factors. Knew sequences would be added to Codex for public viewing after investigation conclusion." Mordin grinned. He had promised himself to make it up to his brothers (not to mention his furious mother) but it was hard not to be pleased at his own genius. "So, perpetrated crime. Framed brothers. Accessed sequences, annotated. Compared to my own."

He quieted, satisfied, and stared up at the observers.

And watched the corners of Drerin's mouth tug upwards. The old salarian's brows were high on his head. "You did all this for your brothers' genomes?"

Mordin nodded. "Indeed. Clever, no? Plan worked. Once analysis was complete, turned self in. Exonerated brothers."

"And what did you find out?"

Mordin sighed contentedly. "Unexpected results. Cloudhead brothers' genomes… impressive. Must concede that. High degree of similarity to my own. Even in critical loci. Aeho and Somat particularly. Statistically significant. Ran calculations. Assuming brothers eventually get breeding contracts, my genes adequately represented in future generations."

"And so you are satisfied."

Mordin sniffed and let out a slow breath. It felt good to finally spell out his master plan. "Indeed. No more rebellion. Was foolish. Childish. Acted without data. Now that data acquired, have accepted conclusion. Do not need to breed to ensure genes represented." Mordin folded his hands before him.

The chamber fell into silence.

Drerin stared down at him, face drawn in a contemplative frown, but Mordin could see the approval in the older professor's eyes. Perhaps Drerin had gone through his own crisis when he'd found out he wouldn't ever have daughters of his own. Perhaps he knew how Mordin had felt.

He cleared his throat yet again. "Your account of events will be added to the Codex. I believe the observers will agree with me that your explanations are revealing, and will need to be factored into decisions of what punitive action to take. I profess a personal curiosity. What punishment do _you _believe fits your crimes?"

Mordin looked away for a moment. He had considered this. "Will submit to whatever punishment deemed necessary. Ran my experiment. Ready now to pay price. Understand brothers have been charged with negligence for allowing themselves to be manipulated. Would request they be exonerated with no punishment. As for myself, precedent of similar cases suggests incarceration in data-entry facility on Sur'Kesh for no fewer than seven standard years."

"You would give up seven years of your life for your three brothers?"

"Would give up life for _two _brothers," Mordin corrected. "Ran numbers. In genetic best interests. Of course, would prefer no punishment. Would prefer chance to continue as professor. Continue studies. But if necessary, yes. Would give up life."

Drerin nodded sagely and opened his mouth to say something.

"But would prefer to specify _which _two brothers, if at all possible," Mordin interrupted. "Eldrin a cloudhead. Also, unkind elder brother. If one brother to be punished, would prefer Eldrin."

Drerin actually smiled.

"Your comments will be considered."

* * *

_16 years ago…_

–

It was not often that Alwin Lawson ate with his family.

Of course, 'family' was a bit of a stretch. Alwin's palatial manor could probably house ten real families, but as it was the occupants numbered only three (not counting the small army of tutors and servants). Even then, the three rarely saw one another unless there was an important enough guest to impress.

Mr. Harper was such a guest.

Nine-year old Miranda sat at the long table across from Birte, picking at her food in the most lady-like manner she could muster and trying not to pay attention to the animated conversation at the other end of the table. It was hard – her father always got loud when he was trying to impress someone. Birte looked as miserable as usual, her beautiful face a practiced mask as she tried not to wince at the noise.

But it was Mr. Harper's words that seemed to echo in Miranda's ears.

She had been trained too well. Her ears couldn't fail to pick up every detail they heard. Her mind couldn't help but dive right to the subtext. Outside she was the perfect picture of elegant silence, but inside her head raced like no other human's.

"Even aside your legal troubles, it's a terrible blow to our industry," Harper was saying, his cigarette tracing quiet patterns in the air. "Two hundred fifty tons of antimatter fuel snatched from an Alliance cruiser while it sat in drydock. You _know _how it looks."

Miranda's father just smiled. "It means the Alliance will be looking to upgrade their security systems. It's a good day, Mr. Harper, for us both."

Harper did not look convinced. "The Alliance will be looking for someone to _blame_, Mr. Lawson, as you know too well."

"My hands are tied, Jack. The man they caught-"

"Is a _human_," Harper interrupted, voice stone cold. "Do you think they want to convict a human? And especially one ranting about _Cerberus _this and _Manifesto _that? How would that look to the Council?"

Alwin considered this.

"They are going to want the prisoner ruled insane," Harper continued. "They're going to want to convict someone with a less extreme motivation than terrorism." Miranda kept eating as quietly as possible, resenting every noisy _tink _of silverware on china. "And so the fact that the man was caught with _your _prototype Starhook system…"

"Libel." Lawson interrupted, teeth gritted in frustration. "The Starhook is a secure project. There's no _way _they could have gotten their hands on it! I have half my bloody fortune tied up in security forces for the damn R and D labs and then they have the gall to tell me someone just _took _Starhook? It's libel!"

"No doubt," Harper agreed genially. "I'm certain the courts would agree."

But now Lawson had started his rant. "The courts?" He shook his head. "The damn courts and their press are all over me. All over me. Think I _leaked _the damn thing on purpose!" He forced a tired laugh. "They probably think _I'M _Cerberus, Jack! They think I wrote the damn manifesto!"

Harper's fingers steepled before him. "Really…" Mr. Harper was a good actor. His words and mannerisms were as smooth and clean-cut as his suit. He smoked his cigarette with a casual nonchalance, listening to the Lawson patriarch's anger escalate. Occasionally he would interject a thought but most of his words were purposefully empty, only there to draw more out of Mr. Lawson. He looked just right – just interested enough – to keep the man talking.

He was smooth, but he was also a liar. Miranda saw it as clear as the contacts on his face. He was not here to hammer out the details a business deal between Cord-Hislop and her father. He wasn't there to deal at all. Not directly, anyway.

Miranda's father was halfway through a new rant on how his privacy had been infringed on when her omni-tool gave a beep and the two men fell silent.

Miranda mouthed a silent curse and looked up to find herself locking eyes with Mr. Harper. She gaped despite herself.

He was beautiful. He looked straight through her and saw her and he was _beautiful._

Her father cleared his throat. "Miranda?"

She fell out of her trance, face reddening in shame. "Violin lesson. Sir."

Her father smiled (but not at her). "Time already? Birte, would you take her?"

Birte rose without a word and took Miranda's hand to lead her out, ignoring the way the girl dragged her feet. By the time they were walking out the door, Mr. Lawson had already resumed his conversation, his daughter forgotten. But Harper's eyes followed her out of the room.

–

Miranda was not entirely surprised to find Mr. Harper waiting for her outside her room when she returned from her lesson. He had his back to her, admiring a framed painting outside her door with another cigarette dangling between his fingers. He was a tall man. Unfailingly neat and pressed, like he'd been built in a shop.

Like he'd been _designed._

"Your father has an interesting taste in art," Harper mused. He did not turn to face her. "Léger is something of an acquired taste."

"It's upside down," Miranda pointed out. It had always driven her insane, but she had never said anything to anyone about it. She preferred evidence of her father's stupidity not be hidden, even if she was the only one to recognize it.

Harper smiled. "Yes. Yes it is. For generosity's sake I will assume your father had it hung that way in gest."

"My father isn't known for his sense of humor, Mr. Harper."

Now Harper turned to look at her, and again she found herself staring into his eyes. His contacts were convincing enough but somehow Miranda knew they weren't his real eyes. He was hiding his real eyes. It was his real eyes that saw through her, not these. "No," Harper agreed, staring. "Known for many things. But not humor."

Miranda felt one corner of her mouth turning up. "Do you… want to come in?" she asked, curtseying as she had been taught.

She didn't know why she found herself trusting him, especially when she reached for the bio-metric lock and found it open already. He remained in the doorway as she stepped inside.

The lingering smell of cigarette smoke proved it well enough. "What were you doing in my-" she paused as her eyes fell on her extranet console and on the document currently displayed on the screen.

She whirled to look at him, mouth agape. "H-how did you?"

"Be careful what you write about men like Alwin Lawson, Miranda," Harper said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Even on what you believe is a secure computer."

Miranda rushed to the computer and closed the files as fast as her fingers could fly, hoping against hope that he hadn't read them. Everything she'd written was there. Private thoughts. All the data she'd stolen from her father's labs. Her _escape _route. She'd hidden it under layer upon layer of security, every strange password she could think up, and yet Mr. Harper had walked in and found every scrap.

And _of course _he'd read them.

Her fingers slowed and she turned.

Harper was still staring at her, his face unreadable. His unnerving eyes flitting. Miranda expected him to be angry. Amused. _Something_. But he was stonefaced.

He took another draw of his cigarette. "When something is written, it is no longer yours," he said after a moment, letting out his breath in a decadent stream. "It has a life of its own. It becomes powerful. Uncontrollable. Even a little thing. A daughter's journal full of hate for a poor father."

He did not look like the comforting type, but Miranda found herself bawling.

"He… he's going to replace me, sir," she mewled. "I found the notes. The next version." She sniffed in a most unladylike way but somehow she didn't care.

If Harper was moved by her tears, he did not show it. "We spoke of art. You are familiar, perhaps, with a quote attributed to a fifteenth-century artist about the nature of perfection."

It came to Miranda's mind easily. "Leonardo di ser Piero Da Vinci said 'Art is never finished, only abandoned'," she sniffed.

He stared at her, waiting for her to make the connections. A million things Niket had said to her popped into her head. About how she was a _person, _not a machine, or a masterpiece, or a slave, or anything else. A person who deserved to be treated like one. Things that had always felt good when she heard him say them. Things she did not say now.

"Da Vinci was wrong," Harper said quietly. "Perfection exists. And you are very, very near it, Miranda. Your father does not know what to do with perfection so he fiddles with it. Makes a new version, a dumber version. A version that will not hate him so." He kneeled down to her eye level. "You _are _finished, Miranda. You are _perfect._"

The dam broke and Miranda launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck so quickly his cigarette fell from his lips. He let her cry into his shoulder but he did not hug back. It was only seconds before he was prying her grip away with gentle hands, but firm as iron.

He stood, tossing his fallen cigarette into a case he drew from his pocket. Miranda backed away, sheepish. "On the bed are two gifts," he said, producing a fresh cigarette and match from a hidden pocket. Miranda turned to look. "That datapad is secure. When you feel the need to give your thoughts a life of their own, write them there." Miranda held the datapad. It was plain to look at but perfect. "You will also find some of _my _writings. I want you to study them."

He lit the cigarette and pocketed the match with a flair.

"The case contains a pair of dueling pistols. Convince your father to hire you a tutor to train you in their use."

Miranda stole a glance in the case. The pistols were incredibly fine, carved wooden handles polished. They were perfect too.

She turned. "Mr. Harper?"

"Read," he interrupted, turning to go. "Continue your lessons. Bide your time. I will be back."

She forged ahead. "The man the Alliance caught was _your _man, wasn't he?"

Harper gave no answer as he left her, but Miranda thought she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips and she knew she was right.

She was up all night reading the Manifesto.

* * *

_15 years ago…_

_–_

"_Drell."_

Thane could not see the batarian guard's eyes behind his two pairs of dark glasses, but the displeasure on his face was clear enough as a second batarian – equally large – planted himself in front of the table. The first guard pointed brusquely at Thane's red-vested chest and grunted something in Khar'shish to the second.

Thane stood unmoving.

"Do not touch the dealer, boys," a voice interrupted from behind. The batarians snapped to attention, sidling to either side to let their master – an elaborately-bedecked turian – step up to the table. "I did not think your kind was allowed in places like this," the turian said, sizing up Thane with thinly-veiled arrogance. Anturen Naces was prim and polished, his dress armor luxurious and gleaming in the casino's blaring lights. The short cape the Cenderes magistrate had given him spoke to his high station on this world, the rings on his fingers spoke to his wealth.

Thane smiled and bowed, uncowed. "Typically not, Mr. Naces," he agreed. "As patrons, our memories can be a gambling house's bane. As dealers, however, it can be a boon." He stood, proudly puffing out his chest to display the logoed pendant the casino's turian owner had tacked on his chest not twenty hours before. "Redshift Casino only hires the best."

Naces' gleaming eyes scanned Thane for a pregnant moment, as if trying to see his thoughts. He relaxed. "Very well," he said, and sat, his batarians taking their positions behind either shoulder. "I'm told you've prepared for me. You know my rules, yes?"

"I do," Thane agreed. His new employers had emphasized to him several times how important Naces' patronage was to the casino. Thane – or Bdello, the young drell he was pretending to be, anyway – just had to keep the turian amused and everything would be fine.

Naces nodded, satisfied. "What am I playing tonight?"

Thane produced the first deck of cards from the depths of a hidden pocket, shuffling them with an elaborate flourish. "Thessian Soria," he said, flashing the cards before Naces' eyes before dealing them out, fast as a viper. "Sixty-eight cards, four decks. A game of math, skill, and luck." It was hardly seconds before the last card was placed, but they were seconds Thane used well, flicking his eyes to get a better look at Naces' guards. The batarian slave twins were beasts, broad shouldered and muscled like piles of boulders, and the clubs and guns hanging from their silver belts were well worn. Still, Thane recognized intimidation when he saw it – the twins had been practically starved until their physiques showed through their thick skin, their normally dense, tangled hair cut short and trim. Thane was not impressed.

Luckily, the batarians were. Their beady eyes followed his lightning-fast moves as he arrayed out the cards in their starting pattern. Even Naces gave a stiff nod, reaching to peek at his cards with one taloned hand. "I'm familiar," he said, clicking his talons against the table's edge, "A simple game. I'm told the humans play something similar." He said 'humans' with a sneer in his voice, but all the same he tapped his first wager into the console at his seat.

Thane smiled, dealing his own house cards. "I would not know," he said. It was best not to mention the humans too freely so soon after the turians had finished fighting a war with them. Most of the avian aliens were amicable enough about it, but Thane had met more than a few who'd taken the outcome of Relay 314 quite personally. "Of course, some would number simplicity among Soria's benefits. It does not lack for strategy, and yet does not lend itself so readily to fits of rage as, say, quarian array-games."

Naces grinned at this. "True enough." He stared at the cards with predatory eyes as the table cast holographic markers above them. Soria – like many asari games – was highly visual, with many game-winning hands purposefully forming pictures or stories between them. The arrangement of cards was of paramount significance – as much if not more so than the numbers on them. Naces reached out and slid one of his cards a few centimeters to one side, causing the holograms to flutter with updates.

"You _are_ familiar with this game," Thane observed as the table gave a chirp and Naces' points rolled upward.

The turian gave him a cocky flicker of mandibles. "I have been coming here for many years, little drell. I know the Redshift like the cut of my plates. The games are among the few pleasures left to me."

Thane knew from his research that that wasn't true – Naces was a wealthy turian and quickly spent whatever he didn't use on bribes. He kept quiet. "You are dedicated," Thane said instead. "To show here tonight, most especially."

Naces eyes narrowed and his two batarians seemed to loom up on the balls of their hairy feet. The turian's voice was icy suspicious. "What is that supposed to mean, little drell?"

Thane was calm. "You are aware of the bounties on your head." The message had gone out on the buoys a few days before. Anturen Naces had finally overstepped the line. It was ten thousand credits to the being who brought the turian alive before the Hierarchy, and that money had brought the mercenaries in waves. There was blood in the water and the isle-sharks were circling, hungry for all the pleasures ten thousand credits could buy. And bigger sharks were coming.

Naces gave a curt bark, looking immensely smug. "Ha! Yes, yes. Ten thousand, was it?" He relaxed, sinking back into his chair. "Ha! Half the galaxy could search for me if they wanted. I am safe here. Exarch Qatunus is going to have to live without his money."

Thane nodded. "No doubt. Of course, that is only one bounty. There was a second."

This just made Naces laugh harder. "The jellyfish? Ha! What are they offering for me, a prayer to the Enkindlers?" He laughed throatily, a long purr in his armored chest. He shook his head. "No, no. I'll save my fear for the real bounty hunters. " He looked at Thane, an amused gleam in his eye. "But the red krogan and his girlfriend are busy, so I think I'm safe for now. Nobody else has the stones to try to take me out of here. Half the people on this planet would die rather than see me captured."

Thane feigned amusement. "No doubt. Though I heard rumor Kartak Had'hah was seen making planetfall this morning," he said. "He and his brothers are well known for their bravery."

"For their _suicidal_ bravery," Naces added, though Thane could hear his confidence slip. "If those freaks want to throw their lives away on a full frontal assault, let them try." He waved a hand behind him. "I have my own batarian brothers to defend me."

Thane smiled again, showing white teeth. "Of course. I am sure you are very safe here."

"Very safe. Even if Kartak did attack, how would he get to me? This place is huge."

"Indeed," Thane agreed, dealing the next round. He let the silence reign for a few seconds. "Of course, a skilled assassin could find a dozen ways in," he added, watching the turian for a reaction. "And even an unskilled one could take the information from a loose-tongued employee."

Naces' eyes narrowed and his laughter died in his throat. "Was that a threat?"

"Of course not. I am simply suggesting that if someone wanted to get to you here, they might try to reach you through the casino staff. That would be my plan."

Thane stared at the turian for a long moment, neither of them listening to the pinging of qasar machines in the background. Naces slumped back in his chair as realization dawned. "_You_ are an assassin," he accused wearily.

Thane nodded. "Alas. I am."

"For the jellyfish."

"I am," Thane repeated, choosing not to protest at the word choice.

Naces nodded. "I see."

There was another long pause as the two sides of the table stared each other down.

Then hell broke loose. There was a great explosion from up above, so strong the Soria cards fluttered in all directions. The sound of assault rifle fire thundered through the casino and shattered glass came raining down from the ceiling. Dark shapes dropped amongst the terrified patrons, slinging down from ziplines and firing their weapons into the air.

Kartak Had'hah and his brothers were said to be identical, only distinguishable by the patch Kartak wore over his lower left eye (and even that, some claimed, was traded between the triplets to confuse their foes), but they were _real_ batarians, and big ones, from the tundra slopes of Khar'shan. The one that landed on the table behind Thane was almost as broad as he was tall and bristling with guns. An armory's worth of ammo was strapped to every inch of his body – a few clips even hung from his long, braided moustache.

Kartak laughed as he shot one of Naces' slaveguards through the shoulder, downing the trimmer alien without a beat's hesitation. It was all Thane could do to leap out of the way as Naces' surviving guard came surging forward to meet him, pushing the entire table along with him and upending it into the bounty hunter's face. Thane dodged and rolled, narrowly avoiding being crushed. The gun strapped to his leg was a comforting weight but he did not reach for it.

Dust and rubble flew as other mercs dove into battle. Bullets flew in every direction.

Thane simply stepped aside, eyes watching Naces huddle amongst the rubble of a fallen support beam. In the chaos, it would have been a simple matter to put a bullet into his neck, but Thane did not, but simply watched with a stoic face as the turian took his chances and fled for the kitchens.

Thane nodded. The kitchens then. Very good.

The fighting between the casino security and the batarian raiders continued as Thane brushed the dust off his uniform, adjusted his collar, and grabbed a fallen tray before heading after the turian, tray held aloft in one hand. He stepped gracefully over strewn rubble.

He stopped at a tug on his pantsuit leg. "Waiter?"

He looked down. A young asari, curled over as if in fear, stared up at him with a face more suited to bored bemusement. She wiggled her empty glass at his ankle. "Can I get another Suraboz whiskey?"

Thane stared at her, listening to the gunfire in the background.

"…when you get a chance," she added sheepishly, apparently realizing the strangeness of her request.

He smiled, stooping to accept the glass. "Of course."

He marched for the kitchens.

–

Thane found Naces cowering under one of the cabinets in the empty kitchens and stared down at him, barely keeping the grin off his face.

"Shit," the turian growled. "Figures you'd attack when those maniacs did. What are they paying you? I'll double it."

Thane set down the asari's glass. "I will not be paid for my work today," he said simply, walking over to the stove and grabbing the handle of an abandoned iron skillet. He tested its weight in his hand, turning it this way and that with martial precision.

"What? Don't tell me you're one of those barefaced historian types, still all up in arms about the artifact thing. Tonn Actus didn't know what he had. Neither did Qatunus. They just wanted to make nice with the jellies but they didn't know what that artifact was worth."

"I obey my mistress Preya," Thane said. "It was Illuminated Aleua among the hanar who you so offended. It is his assassins I might fear if I were you, but luckily he is not the sort to resort to violence."

Naces' face was a mask of confusion as Thane took position next to the door. Heavy footprints thudded just beyond. "What? What are you-"

The door exploded open, filled rim to rim with an angry, bleeding batarian. "NAAAAAACEEEESSSSSS!" Kartak roared, a gleeful glint in all three eyes.

Thane brought the skillet down hard on Kartak's head.

The huge batarian went down without delay, hitting the ground so hard the floor shook. Then all it took was a quick blow to one of the arteries under the neck and he was in blissful unconsciousness.

The room fell silent as Thane wiped his hands and reached for his communicator.

"W…what the hell?" Naces whimpered. "You weren't even after me?"

Thane smiled.

"I was bait!" Naces demanded, looking unsure whether he should be relieved or affronted.

"I told you, I serve Illuminated Preya, who has little interest in your artifacts. But she has a great interest in these brothers," he said, toeing Kartak's unconscious form. His communicator beeped as he typed in his message for pickup, and he slipped it back into his pocket. "Would you prefer I take you in as well?"

"I… I…" the turian stammered. "I… no. No."

"Some other time, then," Thane said, calmly taking up his skillet weapon and washing it off in the nearest sink. "Perhaps you will find some opportunity in the meantime to make a very sincere apology to Illuminated Aleua. I believe it would go a long way towards preventing a future visit from someone like me." Thane placed the pan back where he'd found it before turning to the turian and extending a hand, helping Naces back to his feet. He stared at the turian's wide eyes. "I do, however, have a question for you, if you will indulge me."

Naces nodded emptily.

Thane held up the asari's glass. "How does one make a Suraboz whiskey?"

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

"_The krogan do not take to ships cheerfully. It is a pathetic excuse for war when you kill your enemy with twenty thousand clicks separating you. The turian, the salarian, he will not see the cowardice in this. He will think he is clever, he will think he is safe. But a ship can be a battlefield. If you cannot force him to the ground, bring the ground to him."_

Most of Grunt's 'memories' were only pictures. Videos. Sights and smells and sounds. No feelings, no reality, just Okeer's omnipresent, rumbling narrative. It was a textbook and it read that way, memories leaping from subject to subject in a predefined order. Scenes broken up with long, rambling explanations of how the ancient krogan held their guns or strategic interludes. It was onerous, astonishingly boring stuff, and made Grunt's mind ache, but he could never escape it. The second anything reminded him of anything, Okeer's voice would spring anew in his head to recommend how he could kill it, or pontificate about offworlders.

"_Our ships were gifts from the salarians. Perhaps they forgot they'd given them to us. But they remembered quickly when the skies choked with our numbers. They were only transports, but their guts filled with rubble and rock and steel made them invulnerable. A turian ship, a salarian ship, an asari ship. It did not matter. When we crashed their ships would snap on our breadth and fall to pieces and our lowly transports would fly on. A thousand krogan ships might fall in a battle but ten thousand more would make planetfall and the planet would be ours._

It made the true memories – Okeer's _true _memories – brilliantly vibrant by comparison. Okeer had only included a few, but those that remained stole Grunt's attention for hours on end. The ancient warlord had clearly been as meticulous and detailed a mind in life as his imprint recordings made him in death. Grunt could feel how sharp, how great a leader Okeer had been.

"_The rock had been The Great Lowlander Kredak's idea. Or perhaps Shiagur's – the two had been inseparable in matters of tactics as much as anything else. How fitting that Kredak only perished when the turians stole his own plan and crashed a ship on his head. But only after we'd killed thousands upon thousands of them the same way."_

And how angry. For all the thousands of angry speeches that had been left in Grunt's head, only the memories themselves _felt _like anything.

* * *

_1370 years ago…_

_–_

Okeer had heard of the collectors before. Long ago, before the rebellions had begun in earnest. Before he'd been called to action. The asari had liked the stories. Ancient, unreadable aliens of unfathomable power that disappeared and reappeared wherever they pleased and stole off with aliens in the night.

He'd been so sure it was alien foolishness. The asari needed a few more monsters in the galaxy to keep control over everyone else. That was all.

But he had been wrong. He pressed his shotgun flush against the dying alien's curved skull and pulled the trigger. The creature splattered in the darkness and fell still. Jelly-like blood dripped from Okeer's arms to the floor and walls, just caking and hardening atop the layers of death and foulness already covering the ship.

_These _were the collectors. He was sure of it now.

He snorted. "Everyone still alive?" Everyone, of course, except Adak – he'd seen the pathetic moron chasing after the collector with the big gun, and seen him diced open by the crackling beams that lit up the black like an electrical storm. No great loss.

There was a weary chorus of agreement from the darkness around him. With Adak dead it was thirteen krogan left, out of the three thousand or so he'd left with. The smells and sounds of the newest battle still echoed around them.

The collector ship was dying. It had been months since Okeer's navigator (another fool of a krogan, who'd been caught out of cover and fallen in battle like a splitplate some weeks ago) had first detected it. A huge, cylindrical ship of steel and rock, floating dormant outside the edge of the Eophili system. Months since Okeer had given the order to ram and board it. Months since they'd heard the great crunch of armor as the two ships had collided.

He'd been so sure it was a turian vessel lying in wait, that somehow their pursuers had doubled around and headed them off. But when the krogan troops had stormed the breach and poured into the reeling ship, they'd been greeted not by a turian naval crew of hundreds but a bizarre insect crew of _thousands_. And not mindless monsters like the rachni, but organized and well equipped. They had guns the krogan had never seen before, hand-held lasers and plasma launchers. And the ship itself! Okeer had rammed more than a hundred ships since Kredak had put him in charge of the few thousand massive transports the krogan called a fleet. Many times the turians managed to move in time, but never before had he seen one take the hit and survive it.

But the collector ship had stood strong, holding its atmosphere even though the massive gash Okeer's ship had torn through its hull. The krogan ship had not fared so well, its cargo bays cracking and scattering their contents through space. Okeer had lost near half his force to the hull breach before the rest of them had managed to scramble into the collector vessel.

Neither side had expected to see the other so far out in dark space, between systems where no sane ship captain ever dared to fly, but it hadn't mattered. The war had commenced without delay.

Now it was winding to an end. The ship was strong, the collectors numerous, but they weren't krogan. Okeer had spread his troops through the vessel taking out every major system they could find. Every step of the way they'd been harried by hundreds of the insectoid defenders, but for all their weaponry and numbers the collectors were fragile.

And the krogan – or at least a few of them – were warriors.

"Warlord."

Okeer turned from where he'd been inspecting the dark stain that was Adak's remains, searching for the moron's fallen weapon. Anger and exhaustion festered in his chest, but as soon as he'd stood he felt the knot loosening. In the pitch black that had dominated ever since they'd blown up the collector ship's core, he could barely see his mate's silhouette – let alone the eyes he'd grown to love so much – but her smell was unmistakable. She smelled… perfect.

_Fertile._

"Gaira," he grunted, pressing his crest to hers. She was perfect. Fertile. And those eyes! With Kredak dead, sometimes he felt remembering his mate's ice-blue eyes had looked in Eophili's daylight was the only joy left to him. If only there was enough light to see them by now.

She pressed back, a pleasing rumble in her throat. "They're moving, Warlord. Retreating to their main chamber."

Okeer's eyes were cinched shut, his breath deep and controlled, but his mind meandered up towards where he knew the ship's colossal central chamber was. In the light it had been terrific to behold, its ceiling so high it could barely be seen, the thousands of empty pods glowing like stars, but now, he knew, it was as still and blackened as the rest of the ship, its beauty destroyed when his troops had demo-charged the ship's power cores. "How many remain?"

"Not more than eighty, Warlord."

Okeer nodded. "Good." The collectors had proven no match for a few thousand krogan warriors – especially a few thousand krogan warriors still furious over Kredak's death to the turians – but they'd shown a remarkable ability to replenish their numbers considering they were floating on a dead ship in deep space. The krogan had found them more numerous with every passing day, until one of the vans had found a great forest of cocoons where the troops were being gestated fully grown, guns already in hand. A few well-placed firebombs had solved that problem and the collectors had been dwindling ever since. Thirteen krogan versus eighty collectors? Those were the best odds the krogan had heard in months. Still… the collectors had been fearless, almost mindless fighters. He'd never seen them retreat before. "The leader?" he asked.

"He was there," Gaira confirmed. "Almost burnt out. He will have to move to another minion soon."

Okeer almost allowed himself a grin. "He is getting tired of being killed," he said. Okeer himself had killed the collector leader – a big, burning monster of a thing – ten or so times already, but every time the creature had returned, voice booming as it announced itself. "Our enemy flees," Okeer said, not masking his eagerness. "We will give chase."

Gaira said nothing as he started for the great chamber. It was time to end this. Once the collectors were dead they could rest and see about finding a way back to the rest of the galaxy.

"With me!" Okeer bellowed, tromping up the angled corridor, past great piles of disintegrating collector corpses and his own fallen troops. The ship's artificial gravity was misaligning more every day, but the pitted, earthy walls and ceilings of the collector ships were easy enough to climb. "Our enemy flees."

One of the warriors – Soro, by the smell of it – let out a tired wheeze. "Let them flee, Warlord!" he grumbled. "We need rest!"

Okeer stopped and the silence boomed.

Soro seemed to realize what he'd said and scrambled to his feet, nearly stumbling over in the process. "We… I mean, with all due respect, Warlord."

Okeer stalked to the smaller krogan, feeling the fury build inside of him. "You are _tired_, Soro?" Soro _smelled _tired. He smelled dead, even. Reeking of his own blood and others'.

"We haven't slept in many weeks, Warlord."

Okeer shot him. It was a glancing blow, aimed down at the hip, and largely swallowed up by the remains of Soro's shield, but enough shot got through and the krogan roared in agony, dropping to the floor with a strangled cry. Okeer did not give him time to recover from the shock, and set one booted foot on the fallen krogan's neck, leveling his gun down at Soro's face. He practically spat. "You are _tired, _Soro? Tired of war? Ready to give up, to go home, are you?"

Soro couldn't answer, still clutching his bleeding leg.

It took all of Okeer's willpower not to pull the trigger and end the miserable excuse for a krogan right there, but he was running out of bodies. Even cowards had their uses in war. He was dimly aware of Gaira's hand on his shoulderpad. He would not kill Soro. Still, the fact that Soro even stood by his side filled him with disgust. In Okeer's day, back on Tuchanka, Soro would have died long ago, cast out of his clan for his weakness. But now… A black thought filled Okeer's mind.

"Do you have a son?" he asked quietly.

Soro managed a nod.

Okeer left him with that, head full of anger.

–

"You cannot shoot your own warriors," Gaira chided him as soon as they were out of earshot. The rest of the remaining krogan had had the presence of mind not to complain and followed their warlord up the corridor without delay, Soro limping up at the rear.

"He is no warrior," Okeer rumbled. "I should have killed him."

"He is tired. Even krogan must rest."

"He has a _son!_" Okeer spat, unbelieving. "_That _creature has a son!" The thought filled him with more anger than he could possibly articulate. Every day the krogan numbers fell, every day it became harder to keep up your clan, and yet a fool like Soro had a son. The injustice of it was disgusting. Soro was a grunt, a fool, a meatshield to stand on the front lines as pawn to a real krogan. Pawn to someone like Okeer, or Gaira, or Kredak, or Shiagur. A _real _krogan.

But Kredak had died without a son. And Soro would not.

Gaira seemed to read his mind. "So will you. In time."

Okeer just growled. "You will give him to me, hmm? Like you have given so many others? How many clutches have you laid tainted by the seed of fools, I wonder."

"Dozens," Gaira admitted without the slightest hint of shame in her voice. "That was my duty. The krogan are dying."

"And your duty now is to give _me _a brood. That is what Shiagur gave you to me for."

"Yes. To extend your line."

Okeer snorted. The obvious question – 'well then why haven't you' – came to mind, of course, but the obvious answer did too. He must have mated the hen dozens upon dozens of times since Shiagur had offered her to him in exchange for his alliance. Gaira was one of Shiagur's sisters. Blue-eyed, beautiful, terribly powerful and ruthless, just like the rest of them – in a thousand ways the worthiest mate a bull could ever ask for. And fertile. Still fertile. One of the most valuable krogan in the galaxy. She must have borne fifty or sixty healthy splitplates since the genophage.

And yet none of them his. It didn't seem to be working. Ganar Okeer, one of the greatest warriors in the galaxy. Perhaps the greatest, now that Kredak was gone.

And he couldn't put an egg in this damn female.

But Soro had a son. The next generation of krogan would have a Soro but no Okeer.

He wasn't sure who he wanted to hate the most for that.

"Give it time, Okeer," Gaira said, but he ignored her. Sometimes it was only her eyes that stopped him from killing her and the rest of them and letting the whole shameful decline of the krogan be done with.

–

Thirteen krogan versus eighty collectors.

It had been close. Very close. Okeer had watched the death all around. Had seen Soro fall, seen other, greater krogan fall. Had seen the collectors die in droves. Had seen the great possessed collector appear and die and appear and die and appear and die again. He had seen his beloved Gaira felled by a shot to the stomach.

He'd fought on until he was the only one left. Until he was staring in the face of the possessed collector, watching the flesh strip away from the glowing armature beneath. Flames had licked at his skin and melted his helmet to his neck and his gun had bled away in his hands.

Okeer had nearly died doing it, but he finished the battle with his own bare hands, knocking the collector's head from its shoulders with one sweep. He felt the boiling blood splatter and the satisfying, weighty _thunk _of splitting chitin.

The collector fell, still smoking, and Okeer watched its glow die away.

It grew dark and Okeer let himself fall. Silence reigned. He had won. The ship was dead, truly dead now. And he was alone, his panting the only sound left to populate the dark space. He felt a strangled sort of victory. He had beaten the collectors.

Why?

That was harder to answer. But he was a krogan. He had found them and he'd fought them and he'd won. Never mind why.

He managed to crawl over to where Gaira had fallen and peel her helmet from her head. Even still, she was beautiful. Scarred and beaten but so perfect. His gloved fingers quested under her chin, tracing her thick jawbone before moving up to her eyes. He knew they would not be the same, not if she was truly dead, but he would see them – even in the dim light – if he could.

He did not get the chance. The silence shattered behind him and the darkness fled so fast his eyes screamed in pain. A dazzling red light bloomed to fill the chamber, vast and untouchably wide in every direction. Okeer felt a moment of true fear like he had rarely felt in his life.

The voice of the collector leader boomed. **"Directing."**

Okeer whirled, eyes scanning frantically for the collector he had missed, for a collector rising up and glowing as it transformed into yet another avatar of the collector leader.

But there was none. The collectors were dead. And in their place, a great, ethereal red shape hung in the air, filling up the chamber and staring down at him. Okeer felt his jaw slackening as he stared up at the great, holographic creature, hundreds of feet long, with spidering limbs and a huge, knife-like torso.

"**I am Nazara,"** the creature said, so loud Okeer felt his head might split. **"I am your salvation, Ganar Okeer."**

Okeer grimaced, ears ringing. Just a VI, then. Not more collectors. He turned from the hologram and back to his fallen mate. He ran his hands up her side, feeling for her breathing. The skin around the bullet wounds was warm, the blood sticky and clotting – both good signs – and Okeer pressed an earhole up against her mouth, straining to hear any sign of life over Nazara's omnipresent buzz. It was faint, but it was there.

"**She lives."**

This made Okeer turn back to the VI, which still hung in the air like a weightless monster. "Of course she lives. She was the only worthy krogan here besides me."

"**Organics are unworthy. They fumble in ignorance, live their brief lives deluded. She is unworthy to bask in my presence."**

"Should have killed her then," Okeer grunted, rising to his feet and looking for the projector giving 'Nazara' life. A quick shot or two would make things a lot quieter, give him some time to collect his bearings. He'd have to find a ship, an escape pod or something, that could take Gaira and himself back to Eophili. From there they could find transport to Tuchanka, if that's where they wanted to go. But Nazara seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. There was no projector in sight.

"**She lacks the genomic damage present in all other krogan aboard this ship," **Nazara boomed.** "She will be integrated. She will find immortality. You will find only destruction.**"

Okeer stared angrily up at the hologram. "I beat your collectors, didn't I?"

"**Collectors,"** Nazara echoed. **"A word invented by the asari to give name to our vanguards. This ship and its crew are expendable. There are others. We cannot be stopped."**

Okeer just growled and turned away. This was a waste of time. "Log me out," he grunted, lifting Gaira's body over his shoulder and heading back towards the exit.

Nazara did not. **"She cannot leave. She will be studied."**

Okeer kept walking.

"**There is a spaceworthy vessel on the rear deck. It will return you to your worlds."**

"Good."

"**She will stay."**

Okeer said nothing, just stopped to shift Gaira to his other shoulder. He found he could barely lift her, he was so exhausted, but he wanted to get away from Nazara. Perhaps back onto the remains of the krogan ship for some sleep. Then he could search for the ship Nazara mentioned.

"**Compliance will be rewarded," **Nazara called after him as he limped his way out. **"With the power to remake your species.**"

Okeer stopped.

* * *

_4 years ago…_

_–_

Jack hadn't seen the little batarian there, or she might not have intervened at all.

Or at least that's what she told herself. She'd left it there, untouched amongst what was left of the adults who'd been with it, and tried pointedly to ignore the way its four eyes followed her movements as she searched the bodies.

There had been four of them, all adult males with stained skin and black teeth, a little camp set up in one of the safe spots amongst the murk. Jack had stumbled onto them while they argued about something in their strange, whispery language. They hadn't put up much of a fight – they were scavengers, most likely, not mercenaries.

Jack almost wished they _had _been mercenaries. At least mercs would have had something worth stealing. But rifling through the dead aliens' meager belongings had produced next to nothing. Damp cigarettes of some kind – these Jack thrust into her pants pockets. A pair of pistols, one of them broken beyond repair. Rope and cables. Flashlights. A few crinkled bills of slavemoney. All of it smelly and useless.

Just shit. Not a fuckin' thing. Apparently she'd killed them for nothing.

And that fuckin' kid. Just _staring. _No squeak of fear after watching her break its companions like cheap toys. No stuttered thank you for killing what had no doubt been the slavers who'd taken it from its home. Just sitting in the mess and _staring. _It gave Jack the creeps. Like it was judging her.

"Fuck off," she grunted, fumbling with one of the corpses, looking for a pocket she might have missed. In the dim light so deep in Omega's bowels, it was possible.

The little batarian did not fuck off. It just stared.

She finally met its gaze. "Seriously, kid. This is my rock now. Fuck off or I'll do you too." It was a boy, she decided. If it was human she would have guessed eight or nine years old, but who knew how old that made it in fuckin' dog years or whatever batarians had? The boy's arms and legs were stained black from rooting around in the filth, but the skin on his head and shoulders was deathly pale and unhealthy looking, like he hadn't seen light – even the sickly neon light that was all you could find on Omega – in years.

And it wasn't moving. Probably didn't understand her. Fuckin' fine. Jack pulled a knife from her boot and shoved it under the boy's lower eyes. "Gonna use you as bait, then," she said, turning it this way and that. Even in the dim light it gleamed imposingly, and the boy's eyes mooned wide. "Chop you up, toss you in the fucking water and see if the nao-rets will come after you."

The batarian gave a little gurgle.

Jack was on top of him in an instant, her hands wrapped around his neck, the blade leveled beneath his chin. "Huh!" she demanded, pressing down until a bead of brown-black blood dribbled down her blade. "You say something?"

The batarian's eyes widened even further. "Nao-ret doesn't eat my kind," he managed, sputtering through snaggled teeth.

Jack stared at him, searching him for dishonesty. The kid stared back.

"Fuck." She released him, shoving him to the far side of the island. "Really?" The batarian nodded. "Fuck," Jack repeated, and flopped to a seat. She stared out at the darkness. There was very little light to see with so deep inside of Omega's bowels. They were as far down as you could go, down below the bases of the great skyscrapers that dominated the station, down below the mass effect generators that kept it all afloat, down to the rocky remains of the asteroid mining base that had come before. Offworld people always drew Omega upside down, like a mushroom with the curved asteroid umbrellad over the glowing red structures, but anyone who'd ever been there knew this was the bottom. The lowest of the low. So far down the air didn't circulate anymore and one wrong step into a still pocket could get you suffocated. The only things down here were the vast piles of refuse that had been tossed over the edges over the years, and the scavengers picking through it hoping for something of value.

And, Jack hoped, some fuckin' nao-ret worms.

"So… what?" she asked the batarian. "They like… vorcha, or something?"

"Yes. Vorcha scared of the bottoms. Worms think them very tasty."

Jack sighed. "Fuckin' perfect. I passed like twenty of those bastards on the way down here."

"They are scared of the bottoms," the batarian repeated. Silence seeped in as Jack stared out at the mountains of trash and filth. Somewhere out there was a big fuckin' worm thing, and she was going to catch it. But not without bait. She supposed the little alien might be lying to her to avoid being selected for the job, but it did fit. The vorcha _did _love them some filth, and probably could last longer down here without suffocating than anybody else, but there didn't seem to be any around. "Why are you after worm?"

Jack turned, halfway astonished that the alien was still talking. "Why not?" she asked. "They sound fuckin' cool." Technically, she was lying low. Her last gang hadn't… worked out, and now she had a small army of people after her. Nothing official – bounty hunters Omega-wide had learned by now that hers was not a bounty worth taking, and if Aria had ever given a shit about the destruction Jack caused, she hadn't shown it – just dozens of lowlifes out for vengeance or money or fame or something. It grew tiresome, killing them all. So she was taking a break down in the one place that even Omega looked down on.

And she was bored, so she was gonna try to catch her a giant worm. Why the fuck not? Nao-rets were supposed to be pretty nasty, with jaws that could split a hardsuit. Jack wanted to see one.

"Black and spindly," the batarian said. Jack wasn't sure if it was agreeing with her or not.

"Why are you still here?" she asked. "Go find your own fucking patch of good air or I'll use you as bait for a _vorcha._"

The batarian seemed to consider this. "There are no other patches," he said finally. "If I leave, I choke."

Jack snorted. "That what they told you?" she asked, punching one of the dead batarian's shoulders. "It's bullshit. There are a million safe spots." She pointed up at the big, rattling vent on the ceiling ten meters above them. "As long as you can see one of those things and it isn't blocked, the air's safe. Fuck." Jack looked away. She didn't know why she was telling him this. Nobody had told _her _these rules when she'd shown up here. If she'd sat in one spot and never moved she'd be fuckin' dead.

That thought made her feel angry and terrible all at once.

"Fuck, kid," she snarled, digging in her pocket for the dead batarian's cigarettes, if only for something to do. "You're gonna be dead meat so fuckin' fast."

"You killed Tarka."

"Yeah? Well I'm not fuckin' sorry. _You _shoulda killed him when he tried to tell you you couldn't leave. Fuck." She fumbled with the cigarette packaging. Batarian smokes made for a pretty shitty time, in her experience. No high at all. Didn't even take the edge off. Just tasted like you were eating a houseplant. "Always thought you fuckers were tough," she said, more to herself than to the batarian. "Then I find out you smoke fuckin' bamboo and call it a drug." She snorted, but all the same wrestled one of the cigarettes out, lit it, and took a deep, desperate drag. The taste of ash and chlorophyll filled her mouth. "Fuckin' weak shit," she complained, even though it was better than the rotted, dank air she'd been tasting for the last week or so.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"I don't give a shit," Jack snarled, and took another draw. "Find some fucker out there. Kill him in his sleep and take his shit. Then get the hell out. Repeat." She coughed. "Don't let people like Tarka do that shit to you."

"But-"

"Go," Jack repeated, turning on him so fast he almost fell over backwards. She pointed out at the darkness. "GO."

The batarian stared at her with what she imagined were supposed to be pitiful eyes.

Blue flickered at her fingertips as her implant flared to life and she gave a quick jerk. The batarian had a moment to grunt as the gravity twisted him and he flew, skipping out into the darkness with a splash. Jack stood on her patch of safe ground and listened to him sputter out in the darkness, silently daring him to come back. She was being all fucking _kinds _of reasonable today and it was starting to piss her off.

"If I see you again I will _fucking. Kill. You," _she shouted into the darkness.

–

It turned out she lied.

Jack was a light sleeper when she slept at all. Her implant had a tendency to dig into her head whenever she laid on it too long. She'd usually awaken with knives tracing their way through her nerves and dreams of Cerberus surgeons tracing their way through her head.

But tonight she awoke to the sound of footsteps. They were quiet. Slow. Sneaking.

Her heart started to pound, but she lay still. Jack's eyes creaked open, just long enough to see the silhouette of a person emerging from the blackness. Even as her head leapt into battle, even as she felt the adrenaline hit, even she felt its big brother, whatever fucked up drug they'd put into her head to make her what she was, she fought to keep still. Stay still. Let them get close.

She let them come. Closer. Closer. Even breaths.

She felt a hand touch her boot.

She exploded into action in a millisecond, her arm sweeping low on a contrail of blue fire. She felt her palm make contact, felt the wet _thwack _of flesh and the satisfying crunch of a nose. Her opponent went down, rolling into the filthy water with an astonished shout.

Jack howled and went for the kill.

And then she stopped.

The batarian kid sputtered in the water, nose fountaining blood, all four eyes staring up at her in abject fear. Jack stared down at him through the blue of her own rage, until she saw the knife – the very knife she'd threatened him with earlier, had been pulled from her boot. It glinted in the biotic fire.

She extinguished it.

And she laughed. Her laughter (she noted with some pride) had a very malicious quality to it, even when there wasn't any malice there.

She picked up the batarian by his neck and dragged him up high enough to plant a knee in his gut and toss him back down.

"You," she said, kicking him roughly in the chest, "are a ballsy little fucker." She couldn't quite wipe the smile off her face as she gave him another kick to the crotch, and another on the shoulder, and one more on the chest. "Do not fuck with _me_," she said, landing another blow with each syllable just so it was perfectly clear. "Find some _other _fucker out there to kill in their sleep."

She gave one last kick, a good one, right into his belly, and then finally stopped. He groaned in a puddle at her feet as she picked up the fallen knife and held it up over him.

"Got it?" she asked.

He groaned weakly. Perhaps he thought she would butcher him right there. She hoped so.

But no. She stabbed the knife into the ground next to him. "Keep it," she grunted. Her little fuckin' protégé. What a thought.

She kicked him again.

Just for good measure.

* * *

_9 years ago…_

_–_

The quarians had not been hiding anything. That's what she'd decided.

Tali had been looking forward to working on the Liveship _Golgi_, even despite all the stories she'd heard about how hard the crews there worked you, how constant and oppressive their supervision was. Other than that, nobody ever wanted to talk about their time on the Liveships. Aunt Raan had been silent on the issue, telling her to be patient and she would see for herself. Tali had even tried to find her father to see if he would be any more forthcoming, but she'd hardly seen him since her mother died (she pretended it was because he was grieving but she knew that was a lie).

So she'd come to the _Golgi_ fully believing the quarians had stashed away a piece of Rannoch in its heart, that there would be a little field of grass growing under an artificial sun, maybe speckled with a few flowers. And they'd let her sit on it on her breaks and she'd feel the life on her feet.

Raan had kept it from her to protect her hopes, but the funny thing was that her father would have told her the truth. There was no hidden paradise. There was no field or flowers or sun at all.

There were hundreds of great racks festering with moss. There was dripping, broiling heat that fogged her visor and gummed up her suit. There were rivers of sludge and waste and rotting plant matter being pumped back into the fermentators. The slurping of the pumps and the grinding of the bonding chalk being mixed in the lower decks was a pounding symphony that never, ever stopped, even when she turned her helmet's microphones all the way off.

Tali stood babysitting one of the pumps it as it siphoned a great festering pool of water through a rack of growing moss that, set on its side, would have covered more ground than five or six quarian homes back on the _Rayya. _She kept one hand on the flow valve more out of reflex than anything – her focus was fixed on picking the gunk out of the seals on her suit. It didn't matter how many racks she watered (this was the thirty-fourth today) she always managed to get splashed and her borrowed suit stuck to her skin and started to stink inside her helmet. Wiping the excess moisture off didn't help much but she found herself doing it anyway.

"Keelah," she muttered, wiping her fingers down her hips. When that only managed to transfer the mess to her hands, she tried wiping them across the moss mat. It was a nasty tangle of gray-green tendrils that reminded Tali of some of the alien horror movies she'd watched in the crèche, but it worked well enough as a napkin.

"Never thought nutrient paste could look any less appetizing, did you?"

Tali almost jumped at the voice, but smiled when she saw one of the guards she'd met on her first day on the _Golgi._ "Kal'Reegar nar… Ondra." She said, inadvertently smoothing her suit over her sides.

The marine inclined his head. "Ma'am." She could hear the smile in his voice. He was older – maybe four circuits to Tali's two-and-a-half – and taller than she was, and wearing a _real _suit, not the borrowed, clunky version she would wear until she'd stopped getting taller. The red plates were second-hand but Reegar had cleaned them up nicely and in fact looked rather dapper, even dripping with brownish water. Soon he would be off on his Pilgrimage, no doubt, where he could find some real grass to sit in.

Reegar approached the great wall of greenery and pulled a wispy strand out. "Don't think I'll ever look at that damn chalky crap we call food the same way again," he said. "Now that I know it started like _this_." He dropped it and watched it disappear down one of the floor drains.

"It's horrible here," Tali said.

Reegar looked at her. "It gets better, Ma'am," he promised. "They _do _grow stuff besides moss here. You eaten your fruit yet?" The _Golgi's _captain had promised that everyone on the ship got a piece of fresh fruit, though Tali had started to think that was a deception too.

She didn't say that. "No," she said instead.

Reegar's eyes lit up. "You will. It's worth it. I'd stay here ten more circuits for another one."

Tali smiled to see the marine's enthusiasm. "I look forward to it," she said, and meant it. She couldn't remember ever eating real food before. Half-formed memories of her mother feeding her little reddish fruits when she was half a circuit old danced in her head, but for the life of her she couldn't remember the taste. Only the powdery white gunk she'd eaten every meal since. "Of course, it might be a while. My father sent me here and he didn't say how long I'm staying. Knowing him I'll have my suit before he remembers to call me." She forced a laugh, trying to pretend she was joking.

Reegar didn't laugh back and the silence welled up between them. Tali found herself wringing her hands, mind clawing for something new to say, when the marine gathered her up and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sorry about your mother," he said.

Tali felt her tears well up. It had been months, now, since they'd sent her mother to the ancestors, and the memory was still as raw as if it had been yesterday. She mumbled something – even she wasn't sure what – and hugged Reegar back. He felt very big, very strong up against her like that, and some part of her wanted to just stay there.

But that part of her was interrupted by a fountain of muck. A torrent of brownish, foamy water poured over the side of one of the raised reservoirs as the pump she was supposed to be minding lost its siphon and flooded. The two quarians were knocked to their backs by the force of falling water.

Tali maintained a long stream of cursing (Reegar pretended not to hear) as she fumbled her way to the valve controls and shut off the flow. The fountain sputtered and stopped and the two quarians were left dripping in the mess. Tali's eyes widened behind her helmet as she saw Reegar's beautiful suit blackened and soiled.

"Reegar… I"

Reegar jumped to his feet so fast Tali thought he might have been kicked. In an instant he was ramrod straight, saluting still as a statue.

Tali frowned. "Umm… Reegar? You don't have to salute me, I'm just-" She stopped as realization struck.

_Of course he'd choose right now._

"He does have to salute _me_." Her father's voice was as stern and solid as always and Tali instantly knew he was not here to finally talk about her mother's death. Rael'Zorah looked as gleaming and perfect as usual, even ankle-deep in muddy water. He was polished and still, armored as if for battle, the shawl around his neck the only cosmetic bell on an otherwise perfectly utilitarian garb. He might as well have been a geth.

Tali felt her tongue rebel. "Father, I… I didn't bre-"

"Tali'Zorah. I will speak with you," he interrupted, in a tone of voice that brooked no further argument. Tali did not bother objecting, and just nodded meekly. He'd yelled at her before – probably more than he yelled at anyone else (and that was saying something). Tali could handle that. But she felt her heart descend about a foot when he turned his gaze on Reegar. Even a young, strong marine like Reegar seemed puny and insignificant next to Rael. "Kal'Reegar. The ship Ondra, yes?" he asked.

Reegar was still saluting. "Yes sir."

"Tell me, Kal'Reegar nar Ondra, what was your assignment?"

"I was to guard the growing chambers, sir."

"And does the Ondra teach its guards that they may set aside their duty at the first pair of hips they see?"

Tali's cheeks burned with shame. That wasn't… what they were doing. Reegar seemed to have lost his tongue too, for it took him several seconds to reply "No, sir."

"Just you, then?" Admiral Zorah sounded pleased. He took a step forward, staring into Reegar's mask with an authoritative air.

Reegar didn't move, even when the admiral's helmet almost touched his own. "Yes sir."

Rael stepped back. "Rest assured I will be speaking with Commander Gerrel about this," he said, turning to the pump mechanism and giving it a few subtle adjustments before turning the flow back to full. It reanimated smoothly, like new. He turned. "I will let him deal with disciplining you. For now, however, return to your post and see if you can complete your duty without any more _talking_, yes?"

Reegar nodded sharply. "Yes sir."

"Tali'Zorah!" Rael barked. "With me, now." Rael turned on one foot and marched away, Tali in tow. She tried to toss Reegar an apologetic look as she was led away, but if he saw it, she did not know.

–

Tali followed her father through the dark hallways of the _Golgi, _past great stacks of barreled-up nutrient paste, ready for export to the rest of the fleet, past rumbling pumps and fermentators that she knew would knock her out if she could smell them, past steel canisters of plant silage simmering with cultivated viruses, past aqueducts of waste water being skimmed on its way to the dialysis stations. Few quarians lived on the _Golgi _for more than a few months at a time – despite its massive size its permanent crew numbered only a hundred or so and so it lacked the dense honeycomb of dwelling cubicles that filled every meter of floorspace on the other ships Tali had visited.

It gave it a very dark, lonely air. Most quarians saw space as a mark of affluence – being afforded a home large enough to lay down in meant you mattered, meant you were worth the space you took to house – but the vast space in the Liveship just felt dreary. It wasn't _worth _living in, all dank and molded and lightless.

Of course, Tali figured she'd rather live down in the processing decks for a month than whatever her father would sentence her. Rael'Zorah rarely took a hand in guiding or punishing her himself, leaving it to Admiral Raan to dole out. Raan had told her he feared accusations of coddling or nepotism, but that had come as little consolation. When Rael _did _punish her, though, he was always his version of harsh and his version of fair and would sentence her to work some awful, filthy, difficult job that other quarians feared to take. Raan had told her _that _was because he believed difficulty was educational and would make Tali a better person, but that had come as little consolation either.

"I didn't break it," she tried again, breaking instead the silence that reigned over their footsteps. "It was just a-"

"Siphon leak. I know," her father grunted, and kept walking. "You were only distracted. No harm was done."

Tali didn't know what to say to that.

"It… it was childish of me," she said. "No harm was done but maybe next time… maybe next time the pump will break. Or what if there had been a pathogen in the water, it could…" She tried to imagine how a sickness might slip into their water supply, but it was hard to picture. The systems on the Liveships were very advanced, and while viruses were used in fertilizing crops, it was all done with enormous caution. "I endangered the Fleet."

Rael did not look at her. "Why are you telling _me _this, Tali'Zorah?" he asked. He reached the door to the Captain Ala'brih's quarters, which the captain had ceded to him as a gesture of respect for his visit, and pushed open the door. "Do you _want _me to punish you?" He rapped the seat of a stool. "Sit," he commanded.

Tali sat, feeling more and more confused. Ala'brih's quarters were a little nicer than hers – his bed was a few inches longer and he had a little shelving unit stacked with datapads and consoles – but all the same it was hardly big enough for Rael to turn around and fetch a small lockbox. He fiddled with the latches without speaking.

Tali moved on to her next guess. "I didn't ask Reegar to hug me," she said. "We were just talking." She hesitated. "…I don't _like_ him," she lied.

"Gerrel speaks highly of him," Rael said absently. "He would be a good mate, in time."

Tali felt her cheeks warming again. Luckily she was spared the need to elaborate when Rael opened his box and pulled out a flat metal object a little bigger than his palm. He sat on the bed and held it out to her.

She took it and turned it around in her fingers. It was a disk of some kind, jet black and smoothly beveled. Tali recognized tiny projector lenses imbedded into the metal, along with a set of ebony buttons that had been polished by what looked like thousands of fingers. "A holo projector?" she asked, feeling its weight – it was heavy.

Rael was silent.

She ran her fingers over the disk's edge, feeling the tiny carvings there. They were worn too, but intricate and gorgeous.

"It is one of your ancestors," Rael said finally. "Your mother's family. From before the war."

Tali's eyes widened, realization dawning. She had been told how the ancient quarians had once immortalized their dead by reforming their personalities and wisdom in advanced VI programs. She had been told how the geth had razed the databanks, the thousands of ancients' minds who were lost in the blaze of the Morning War.

"Does it work?"

"No," Rael said. "I tried to fix it. I tried to-" He stopped. "When your mother died-" he stopped again. The great Rael'Zorah did not blubber or cry. He only fell silent. All the same Tali could almost _feel _his sorrow. Raan had always told her how fiercely Rael had loved his wife, but she had never believed it until now. Nothing else had ever stilled his tongue. "I want you to have it," he concluded, voice quiet.

Tali held it to her chest. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Do what you will," Rael said, standing. The moment was over. "Do not show it too openly if you do not wish to see it taken from you," he warned. "There are many who would be upset to think any of them still existed."

Tali thought about trying to hug him but thought better of it. "Th… thank you, Father."

Rael did not say anything, and she took her cue to leave. She was halfway out the door when his voice stopped her.

"Tali'Zorah?" he said.

She turned.

He was already occupied reading a datapad. "You will learn to be more attentive," he said, not looking up. "As punishment for your negligence, you will be moved to the fermentators for ten days of forced labor, where you will learn what might have happened had you left that pump to flood."

* * *

_4 years ago…_

_–_

Garrus waited in the hall outside the Executor's office and prepared for the worst. It was not to be a good day – he'd spent much of the morning enduring his partner Anla's rage (frankly, he was astonished that she hadn't tossed him through a wall with her biotics), and if the angry tones coming through Pallin's door were any indication, the yelling was only just begun. Pallin was pissed – Garrus had chosen a bad day to disobey orders. He'd be lucky if he didn't lose his job.

On the other hand, if he was fired his father would kill him, so at least he wouldn't have to find a new job.

Garrus smiled grimly at that idea.

He told himself he wasn't sorry. Whatever Pallin said, or Anla said, or even his father said, he had done the right thing. If they had been there behind his scope – seen the asari girl's terrified eyes, the bony turian arm around her neck, the blade at her throat – they would understand. They would have taken the shot.

Still, when Pallin's door finally slid open Garrus nearly jumped out of his seat.

"Officer Vakarian," Pallin's voice was dangerously quiet, "have a seat."

Garrus swallowed his reservations and filed obediently into Pallin's office. The executor looked about as he expected – his mandibles flickered in barely-restrained anger – but Garrus nearly stopped when he noticed the stranger. Another turian, tall and armored in imposing gray plates, stood silently behind Pallin, his arms crossed behind his back. His face was skeletal and free of clan markings, and while Pallin did not look up at Garrus as he entered the room, the stranger's eerie cybernetic eyes followed him intently. Garrus suppressed a shudder.

"Sirs," Garrus said quietly, bowing his head in deference to each of them. He took a seat.

Pallin let him stew in silence for several minutes. Garrus looked pointedly at his feet, but he could feel the stranger's penetrating gaze on him at all times. It made him feel a little uneasy. Transparent, guilty even. Eventually Pallin took pity on him and broke the quiet.

"Is Sergeant Anla's report accurate?" Pallin asked, not looking up.

"I do not know Sir," Garrus said. "I have not read it."

"It describes your stakeout at Vaikul Crinn's office last night. It describes how you violated Sergeant Anla's commands and fired upon the target while he held a high-profile hostage, without proper authorization, and before the building had been adequately surrounded. It goes on to describe how your doing so allowed the criminal to escape through a maintenance tunnel until Anla was able to subdue him. Is all this true?"

"It is true," Garrus confirmed, sneaking a glance up at the stranger. He was still staring. "Though I feel it may be incomplete without referencing how I saved the girl's life."

"That is _not_ what I see here!" Pallin shouted, suddenly furious. He jabbed angrily at the report on his desk. "I see recklessly endangering her life! I see nearly allowing her captor's escape! What if you had hit the girl? Her mother would have sued us both out of existence! What if he had panicked and killed her then and there!"

"Hard to do with only one hand." Garrus and Pallin wore identical looks of surprise as the stranger stepped forward and took the datapad from Pallin's hand. His voice was quiet and brimming with dark competence. "Took the knife right out of his grip from four hundred meters," the stranger observed. "Must have been a spectacular shot."

Garrus felt a glimmer of hope at the idea of being rescued. The stranger was imposing, with huge frills and metal joints, but at least _somebody _was willing to complement Garrus hitting what he figured was a damn near impossible target.

"Please, Saren," Pallin said, voice suddenly a great deal more respectful. "Garrus does not lack for skill. He lacks for _discipline!_"

"And the perpetrator was apprehended," Saren continued, unaffected. His cybernetic gaze flitted back up to Garrus' face. "How did you determine Vaikul was the kidnapper?" Garrus found himself momentarily tongue-tied. He glanced at Pallin, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Who was this Saren, whose simple presence made Pallin so spineless?

"I, uh..." he cleared his throat, "I looked through the room service charges at the hotel where the girl went missing. Noticed he'd ordered a few hundred credits' worth of L-amino food. Assumed it could be for the girl." Saren said nothing – did not even give a smile of approval. He just continued staring into Garrus with his empty eyes, as if trying to look right through him.

After a moment, Pallin spoke up again. "At C-Sec there are ways of doing things, Garrus," he said, clearly trying to pretend Saren had not interrupted. "Reasons behind doing them that way. We expect our officers, however skilled, to abide by the rules."

Garrus felt emboldened. "If I had '_abided by the rules' _and done nothing that girl would be dead," he said petulantly.

"Then she'd be dead!" Pallin roared, standing up. "That doesn't change anything! These rules keep _thousands _of people safe and happy every day, and you _will _follow them! And the next time you _don't, _I will throw your ass on the street! I don't care if you _are _Atus' son!"

"This is the son of Atus Vakarian?" Saren asked, his quiet imperviousness in stark contrast to Pallin's rage. His voice somehow seemed to drown out the Executor with ease. Pallin didn't answer, but Saren didn't seem to care. He just stared at Garrus. Measuring him. Pondering.

"I am," Garrus admitted after a moment, trying to get Saren to move on, to move his horrible eyes. Saren didn't. He stared. The seconds seemed to drip by, and Garrus wondered what was going through the strange turian's mind.

"Well at least he shares his father's commitment to justice," Saren finally concluded, and the tension broke.

* * *

_3 years ago…_

_–_

Sweat beaded on Jacob's forehead, dripping down to the loam below.

"Tensely. Hut."

The tension was palpable. Jacob adjusted his footing and breathed deeply.

"Tensely. Hut."

The woman in front of him was sweat-stained, her previously-neat bun fraying about her shoulders now, but lean and beautiful. Still, Jacob kept his eye on the prize. The ball in her hands.

"With mounting drama." Wunya said. The drama mounted.

…

…

…

"Hike."

The brown-haired woman snapped the ball back in an instant, making a _thwack _as it landed in the elcor's solid palm.

Everyone crashed forward, slamming into their opposites as Wunya took a few ponderous, ground-shaking steps backwards, his little eyes filled with determination. Jacob ended up forearm to forearm with the woman soldier and pushed her back with all his strength, making a beeline for the elcor. The woman was stronger than she looked, though, and dug her feet in, slamming an elbow into Jacob's midsection and knocking him back just long enough that Wunya started to move.

And once Wunya started to move, he didn't stop. Wunya was _always _the quarterback when the 212th played.

It had taken some time before they'd managed to convince the elcor to play at all – the vast alien had adapted to his new life on Eden Prime well but remained convinced that now that he was helping the Alliance every task was of life-or-death urgency, no matter how much his marine friends tried to explain otherwise. Still, after eight months of guard duty on a farm world where the worst threat they'd faced was a girl's pet gasbag getting caught inside a generator, even the paranoid elcor had been convinced that they could play a game without worrying about another Skyllian Blitz.

Now the alien was hooked, and every time Cadence's power went out (at least weekly, to the soldiers' great irritation), he made his ponderous way out to the fields to wait for the soldiers. They'd found him there again today when the fans had died in the barracks and the heat had overwhelmed them.

"Get him!" Jacob shouted, managing to wheel the woman to one side and make a dive for Wunya as he plodded by. It was like diving into a brick wall but the soldiers did it anyway, leaping onto the elcor's towering back in yet another futile attempt to weigh him down before he made it to the end of the field. Jacob saw Major Izunami wrapped around one of Wunya's massive forearms, muscles bulging as he tried to pry the ball out of the elcor's thick fingers, but Wunya held firm.

Half of Wunya's team had turned traitor and joined in by the time Wunya crossed the endzone, dragging thirty people behind him. Both teams were breathless with laughter as the elcor set the ball daintily down on the grass.

"Amused. Touchdown," Wunya reported, turning to look at the collapsed soldiers with twinkling eyes.

"Good play, Wunya," Jacob said, panting as he disentangled himself from the other soldiers.

"Proudly. I have been practicing."

Jacob laughed and patted the alien's sweaty flank. "I can tell, Wunya, I can tell," he said. "You're a force to be reckoned with. There's still room for improvement, though."

The alien's brows rose on his wide face. "Anxiously. There is?"

Jacob nodded, edging towards the ball at Wunya's feet. "Solemnly," he said, "you're a little too trusting."

Wunya did not have time to say "Confused" as Jacob snatched the ball from the ground and took off in the other direction, leaving a chorus of cheering behind him. Jacob tore down the field, muscles burning and lungs pumping like bellows. A few of the other players launched themselves at him but he was too quick and pivoted around them, squeezing his way through and laughing.

He stopped five meters from the endzone and turned to gloat back at the crowd, holding the ball triumphantly over his head.

Big mistake.

A tanned missile crashed around his midsection so hard he felt the air forced out of his lungs. He fell backwards into the grass, nearly losing hold of the ball as the brown-haired woman leapt for it. For a moment he felt like he was back in battle again as the woman wrapped one arm around his neck while she pried at his white-knuckled grip on the ball with the other.

"Oh hell no," he grunted, and twisted in her grasp, turning onto his belly. The endzone was not two meters away. He started to get up, only to have the woman toss her weight onto his upper back, dragging him back down into the grass.

Biotics then. If elcor weren't against the rules, neither was manipulating gravity.

He pushed her, watching the blue curl around her body, and managed to yank her arms off of him. The woman gave a pained _oof _as she went rolling.

Jacob scrambled to his feet and made a mad dash for the endzone.

He made it half a meter before she crashed down on him again. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the ball from her long enough to drag out another biotic wave.

Then she kissed him. It was short – just a peck – but it caught Jacob so off guard that he hardly realized what had happened until the woman had ripped the ball from his hands and tossed it back towards the center of the field.

–

They were still laughing when the scientist came running onto the field, calling for help. He was breathing hard when he reached the soldiers, his white lab jumpsuit stained to the knees by grass and stuck to his back by sweat.

Jacob leapt to his feet in an instant. "What happened?" The man leaned up against him, still choking on his breath as the rest of the 212th gathered.

"Need… Need help," he panted, leaning down on his knees. "Dr. Warren. New dig manager. Wants… wants you. Dig site. Something happened."

Jacob looked to Izunami, who gave a foreboding nod. "Taylor. Go with him."

The man thanked Izunami profusely and turned back the way he came, but hardly made it five feet before stumbling. Jacob caught him by the elbow and hoisted him back to his feet. "You alright?"

The scientist mumbled something incoherent.

Jacob patted him on the back. "I know where the dig site is. Warren will be there?" The man nodded, mouthing ineffectually. "Do I need radiation gear?" The man shook his head. Jacob nodded his understanding and passed the panting man to Bhatia, then turned and headed back for the barracks.

He was only halfway surprised to see the brown-haired woman following him. He didn't acknowledge her presence as the two of them reached the end of the fallow field they'd been using for their games. They passed the barn-shaped home the farmers had built for Wunya and entered the warehouse-turned-barracks that had been Jacob's home for the past eight months. The power was still off and the interior was dark as Jacob forced open the normally-automatic door and stepped inside.

"You guys have extra guns, right?" the woman asked as Jacob went searching for a clean shirt.

"Doubt we'll need 'em," Jacob said.

The woman ignored him. Even in the dark he could see the determined set of her jaw. "Where are they?"

Jacob shrugged and pointed. "Far end of the room are a few spares. Key is one-one-three-nine."

The woman came back with two Avenger rifles, tossing one to Jacob. He himself hadn't used such a large gun since he'd aced the Alliance's program and turned down his N5, but it settled into his hands like he'd been born with it. They left the barracks, drawing the doors closed behind them.

Without power, the rail systems that the farmers used to move everything from crops to heavy machinery were out, so the two of them walked, following the rail lines down to where the builders had been constructing a new geothermal power plant dedicated to stopping the blackouts in Cadence Station. The sun was high in the sky, the heat and humidity stifling as they walked.

"My grandmother taught me always to learn a lady's name before I kissed her," Jacob said when the silence had become too much.

The woman grinned. "_I _kissed _you_," she reminded him. "Williams, Ashley. Err… Ashley Williams."

Jacob shook her hand. "I'm-"

"Jacob Taylor. I know. The biotic." Jacob nodded. He'd long ago gotten used to the infamy that came with being the only biotic soldier in the 212th. Some of his fellow soldiers had been distant at first, but he'd gotten to know them and now most were like family. Even soldiers from other garrisons like Ashley had apparently gotten used to the idea. Ashley flashed him a smile. "Reddy said you hit like a wuss."

Jacob's eyebrow curled. "Do I?"

She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck with a series of noisy pops. "Pretty much."

They reached the construction site and could tell immediately that something was wrong. Jacob could see Ashley stiffen as they passed a parked medevac, its white-and-red engines idling. The smell of burning plastic filled the air. The two of them traded a significant glance as they passed a silent earthmover, empty except for the small fire smoldering on its console.

One of the construction workers took one look at them and pointed them down into the tunnels where the plant's foundations were being dug. Jacob thanked him as he rushed off, holding a cloth over his face.

They followed the maintenance tunnels down. Clearly the power was out here as well – light fixtures were dark from where bulbs had shattered in their sockets. Strings of emergency lights had been stretched down the tunnel and cast everything in an eerie glow. Abandoned tools littered the floor, and not just digging supplies but laboratory tools. Scanners and glassware and robotic samplers. Every step Jacob took made the heat cling to him and the smell grow worse, until he pulled the hem of his shirt up to cover his mouth.

It felt like an oven before they reached the end and found Dr. Warren. She was obviously _not _a construction worker in her white laboratory smock. The woman's short red hair and blue eyes were all that peeked out from around her gasmask, but all the same Jacob could see the exhaustion in her face.

But he didn't move to help her. He just stared, mouth agape.

At the far end of the chamber was a tower of machinery unlike any he had ever seen. Ten feet tall and made of what looked like a cross between polished steel and ceramic, it rose from the soil like a tower. It was spotless, like it had been taken out of a clean room, and even the tiny, decorative grooves that ran along its front edge were sharp and perfect.

It was undeniably, monstrously alien, and Jacob felt drawn to it.

"Don't get too near it," Warren warned, not looking up. "It's hot."

It _was _hot. Jacob took another step towards it, feeling the air in front of him boil. When he looked close, he could see where the soil near the spire had been scorched white. Some of it still glowed like a dying fire. What had looked perfect and unbreakable from across the room was not so as he neared – the artifact was melting too, its outer layers dribbling away to reveal green stone circuitry beneath.

"W-what is it?" he found himself asking.

Warren sighed. "I wish I knew."

"It's prothean," Ashley said. She did not sound impressed.

Warren nodded. "Yes, yes. Prothean tech." She looked distant. Her voice wavered.

"What happened?"

Warren looked up at him as if she had only just realized he was here. "Thank the Maker you're here," she said, suddenly frantic. "It… it blew up!" She stared at the alien device, brows screwed up in horror. "The beacon… it _attacked_!"

"What do you mean? What is a beacon?"

"It's… I don't know what it is. They dug it up a few days ago. I only got called here yesterday." She looked frantically between them, eyes lingering on the guns in their grips. "I want you two to guard it. Until it can be moved."

"We c-"

"I _told _them it was dangerous!" Warren said, not looking at them now. "I _told _them I couldn't stop this sort of thing. I _told _them to let me call T'Soni."

"Dr. Warren!" Ashley interrupted, grabbing the woman's shoulders. "What happened?"

Warren seemed to melt under the steel of Ashley's gaze. Her eyes watered. "It defended itself," she said. "I don't know what they were doing down here but it… it turned _on._ They took Manuel to Constant for treatment. He was ranting and screaming like I've never seen before."

Jacob looked at the beacon. It seemed quiet enough, but now the heat billowing off of it had a menacing feel to it. He could not help but miss the half-melted pickaxe on the ground next to it.

"The other man wasn't so lucky," Warren whispered. "He shouldn't have been down here. I _told _them it was dangerous."

"So it's a defense system," Jacob said.

Warren shook her head. "No. No, I don't think so. It blew up half the site's generators and melted itself clean through," she gestured to the hole in the beacon. "It's probably ruined. I think it was… calling for help."

Jacob stared at it. "A prothean cellphone calling for help," he said, forcing a grin. "Fifty thousand years too late, huh?"

Warren favored him an ingenuine smile.

Ashley did not.

* * *

_2 years ago…_

_–_

Kasumi had never stepped foot on Earth, but that's where she was now.

The grass was greener and finer than any grass she'd ever seen. The sun was yellow and small, the sky blue-white and filled with puffy clouds. She was in a park – as best she could figure – watching a blonde family on a picnic. Everything was amusingly optimized, from the mother's plastered-on smile to little Suzie's perfect curls to Bobby's 'gee-whiz, Dad' attitude. She couldn't turn her head more than a little – the memory only looked on from this one angle – but still she imagined she was really there, really back on Earth, really watching this saccharine scene in person.

The scene ended. She restarted it with a mental command that sent a little _click _through her head.

The grass was back, greener and finer than any grass she'd ever seen. The sun yellow and small, the sky blue-white, and so on. Maybe Suzie's curls were less perfect this time, though. Maybe it looked a little different. Maybe the acting wasn't so obvious. Keiji had told her memories – even raw visual data like the sample files they'd included on her brand new Graybox – would change over time as her mind added to them. Never reduced, just enhanced. She turned her head. Maybe a little farther, this time.

The scene ended. She restarted it.

She supposed she'd watched the family picnic more than a hundred times already, but there was little else to do, stuck in bed and blindfolded as she was. The only other files the manufacturer had left on the Graybox's drive were the manual and terms of service and an annoying asari jingle that she'd already had stuck in her head before going under the knife in the first place. There would be no losing it now.

The scene ended again. She restarted it.

This time the picnic was interrupted by a knocking sound from up above, hollow and metallic, and Kasumi dismissed the rest with a wave. Back to the real world for a while. Keiji was home.

With some effort she rolled onto one side, ignoring the wave of nausea, and stretched her arm out to brush a hand across the control panel on the wall. It gave a happy beep and a deep _clack _echoed through the tiny room as the hatch above opened. Kasumi settled back into her sheets, smiling as she listened to her partner's footsteps descending the ladder.

"You didn't ask for the code word," Keiji observed.

Kasumi could hear the disapproval in his voice. She shrugged, rolling over to face him. "Who else would you be?"

Kasumi felt the mattress sag as Keiji sat on the edge of her bed. In a moment his hands were on hers. "We have enemies, Kasumi. And you're not exactly in top form right now."

She didn't need reminding how weird it was not to be wearing her suit for more than a week straight. The pajamas she was wearing were upsettingly visible and hid a lot fewer weapons and tricks than her usual wardrobe. Still, she _did _have a pistol squirreled away in the crack next to the bed – she liked to think she could shoot an intruder coming down the hatch, blindfolded or not.

"Who else would be poking around a dirty old crate like this on Bekenstein at this hour?" she asked, squeezing his hand. It was a good question – as slick and comfortable as the tiny cubicle that served as one of their secret bases of operations was, from the outside it looked like a simple shipping container, rusted and dented with overuse. Kasumi had even painted "Warning: Recycled Municipal Waste" on the side, along with a few skull-and-crossbones for good measure.

Keiji helped Kasumi rise to a sitting position. She felt his hands at her face, working with the strap on her headband. It lifted away, flooding her vision with near-blinding light wreathed around Keiji's omnipresent paternal look of caution. "Kasumi," he said, in that tone of voice that meant he was not going to let it drop.

Kasumi sighed. "Fine. I'll be careful. Codewords from now on." She kissed his nose. "I promise."

He smiled at that. "How are you feeling?" he asked, taking off his hat and pulling a tiny flashlight out of one of his uniform's coat pockets.

"Still a little loopy," she admitted, sitting still so he could shine the light in each eye.

"No problems seeing?"

"Other than that you're making me wear a blindfold all day? No."

Keiji ignored her jibe. "Head pain?"

She shook her head.

"Want me to lower your painkillers?"

Kasumi grinned toothily. "Not on your life, Okuda." She crossed her eyes and stared blankly up at the ceiling. "This stuff is _fuuuuun_. I'm trying to save a memory of the drugs but it isn't working."

"Grayboxes don't really do that," he said, rising and shedding his coat before tossing it over the jeweler's tools on their narrow writing desk.

"_Now _you tell me," Kasumi said, scooting back until her shoulders rested against the wall so she could watch Keiji rifle through his work briefcase. While Kasumi had spent the last ten days bedridden after brain surgery, he'd managed to get himself a job at a fancy jewelry store that was the only K-AG holding they'd managed to find in the area. He'd been selling diamonds to spoiled women and asari, kissing the right asses and pretending to be normal, all the while keeping his eyes out for Kasumi's newest hunch. She knew he hated pretending to be someone he wasn't, but he wanted to clean out Hock as much as she did. Besides, he looked rather fetching in his purple salesman uniform and little matching hat. "Did you find the rings?"

Keiji creaked a mischievous eyebrow and pulled a tiny felt bag out of his suitcase. "Of course," he said. He'd been staying up late at night making fake rings to put in the stolen ones' places. Keiji Okuda was very much a perfectionist, and probably spent near as much duplicating the rings as the real ones were worth in the first place, but it didn't do to be incautious.

He took a kneel beside her bed and handed her the bag, which _clinked _in her hands until she dumped it out between them. Gold and silver and gems of all colors spilled out onto the sheets, filling the room with a gleam not half so bright as the gleam in Kasumi's eyes. She had always loved treasure. She ran her hand across the rings, hundreds of thousands of credits' worth of them, rolling them beneath her palm and just enjoying the feel of the cold metal.

Keiji held one up to her to examine. "This one," he said, turning it in the light. A trio of emeralds imbedded in a silver band, with a gold filigree. Kasumi took it and slipped it on her finger. It was beautiful.

"No," she said, slipping it back off. She put it aside. "It's too small."

Keiji frowned. "You said it was emerald on silver."

"I said I _thought _it was emerald on silver," she reminded him, picking up the next ring and trying it on. "This was, if you'll recall, _before _you finally let me have my Graybox." This new ring was beautiful as well. Sapphires on crown gold, with little birds carved around the band. Kasumi examined it closely, trying to remember if it matched the one she'd stolen off of Sasha Santiago. It was pretty, but not quite right. She set it aside and moved on.

The ring she'd taken from the Santiago girl had been rich. She was sure of that. And that the girl had been seen going in and out of Kirkwall AstroGeology's office at least twice per week – along with her _convenient _new position as Donovan Hock's new trophy girlfriend – made it seem likely it had come from the one jewelry store Keiji had been able to find that sold gems from Kirkwall's operations.

Keiji and Kasumi had been trying to figure out just what the connection between Hock and Kirkwall AstroGeology was for the better part of a year now. Ever since Kasumi had seen Hock at one of the mayor's galas, she'd known he had something to hide. Of course, if he had not he would have been a rarity on Bekenstein, but somehow she had known it went deeper than that. Hock was very public with his associations with a number of mercenary groups, though he vehemently denied funding them and only admitted to selling them large quantities of his company's weapons and technology. Still, he was only one of many arms dealers on Bekenstein, but had risen to wealth and prominence in less than five years, leaving many of his competitors in the dust. When the man had built himself a vast estate in one of Bekenstein's wealthiest neighborhoods and staffed it with an Eclipse security force, Keiji had gone undercover and dug up the right ledgers, confirming Kasumi's suspicion – Hock was getting a massive, off-the-books income from _someone ._ He had a fortune, and it was the sort of fortune he couldn't admit to the police, let alone report stolen. Add that to his love for expensive art and other fineries and he was a delicious target for a heist.

Then he'd started his alliance with Kirkwall AstroGeology – a tiny, theretofore-unknown mining company operating on low-risk asteroids well within heavily surveyed Citadel Space – and things had gotten confusing. Hock had been championing Kirkwall without a clear motivation and Keiji and Kasumi had become convinced it had something to do with his secret incomes, but for all they'd seen the man was hemorrhaging money on the smaller company's behalf, even buying lavish rings from them every few days for his girlfriend.

Kasumi tried the next ring, trying to imagine it on the Santiago girl's well-manicured hands and ignoring Keiji's impatient expression. She'd stolen the girl's ring on one of her many scouting trips to Hock's various properties. It had been a petty thing, the kind of stupid victory that could only have hampered their long-term efforts to rob Hock of everything he owned – but she had been unable to resist.

And then she'd realized it was a fake and snuck it back into the girl's pocket.

It was not until she was being prepped for her Graybox surgery that she'd had an epiphany.

The key was the Santiago girl. They just needed that damn ring back. Or one like it.

But now, with a gulf of anesthesia between her and the last time she'd seen the ring, Kasumi could hardly remember it. She went through the entire pile, one after the other, some worth more than Keiji had spent to make their hidden crate bases, but none of them felt right.

"Maybe you're too focused on the color," Keiji suggested. "If you're right and they're using synthetic gems to smuggle information, maybe the color's even changed. Maybe close your eyes again. Maybe the weight will be more familiar."

Kasumi grabbed her blindfold and slipped it back over her eyes. She held out a hand.

"I assume you tried the real one on?"

Kasumi smiled, wiggling her fingers. "Of course."

She felt Keiji slip a ring on, sliding it gently up. The smooth metal was pleasantly cool against her skin. She flexed her fingers, testing the weight. Feeling the band with her thumb.

"No," she said. "Not this one. Too light. Another one." Keiji pulled the ring off and replaced it with another. This one was heavier. "Maybe," she said. "Another one." She tried to empty her mind and just intuit what she needed, and contemplated pulling up that damn asari song again just to distract herself.

But then another thought distracted her. "You know," she said, as Keiji slipped a new ring onto her hand, "it's customary, when a man kneels like this, to put the ring on the _ring finger_," she said, face neutral and blush carefully controlled.

"If I were asking you to marry me, I'd be sure to do just that," he said.

Kasumi chewed her lip. "You could…"

"Kasumi… " Keiji's voice was quiet as he reached for the next ring. "We've talked about this."

"We've talked about a lot of things."

"We can't have that life right now, Kasumi. We live in a shipping container."

"Together," Kasumi pointed out.

"That turian broke my nose," Keiji joked.

"Makes you look tough." She heard Keiji's sigh as he took her newest ring and put it with the others. When he didn't say any more, she frowned. "A lesser girl might be insulted, Okuda," she said. It was petulant but she didn't care. "How long have we been together?"

She felt his hands grasp hers. "It isn't an insult, 'Sumi. I love you. I do."

"Just not enough?"

Keiji sighed again. "Fine. I'll ask, if it means so much to you. But you have to promise to say no."

Kasumi nodded. "I promise," she lied.

"Kasumi…"

"I promise!" She pulled off her blindfold and gave him her most honest look even as she woke up her Graybox for its first stored memory.

He looked her full in the eyes when he asked her, and even though she said 'yes' he looked happy to hear it. Her head lurched when she dove into his arms but she didn't care.

* * *

_33 years ago…_

_–_

Vido had always told him he had trouble making friends, but Zaeed liked to think he was just really good at making enemies. The barrel of a pistol nestled itself against the back of his neck.

"You want to say that again?"

Zaeed just grinned. "Missin' your ears _and _your balls, huh?" he slurred, pausing to toss back the rest of his drink. The empty glass made a nice dramatic _thud _against the counter as he twisted around on the stool to give his cockiest grin.

He'd found the _Kroganshead _bar nestled under a grove of dead baobabs, smack in the middle of Tshane's biggest mercenary staging ground. He'd been talking to farmers and thugs all morning to no avail. Nobody in the entire district had even _seen _a working spacehip, let alone had one to sell. It was just like Tshabong all over again, and Zaeed was getting tired of asking. So when the _Kroganshead_'s sign had jumped out at him – boasting the strongest drinks and the toughest men, no less – he hadn't hesitated to call it a day.

Now he was half drunk and half broke. And he had made some new enemies.

"Alright," he said, staring up at the brute who held him at gunpoint. "I said you're a bloody _liar. That_," he pointed up at the so-called krogan skull nailed up above the bar that gave the joint its name, "is a fake. Not one man in this bar is man enough to have even _seen _a krogan. Let alone killed one." He motioned for another drink, blowing a few lazy locks of hair out of his eyes.

"I ought to kill you for that," the man with the gun rumbled. He was a big, ugly bastard, face pocked with little scars that made his broken nose seem all the broken-er, but a looker next to the two goons dogging his shadow. He was armored, as many of the mercs still scavenging the southern half of the continent were, in repainted CASAI gear. After the coalition had broken up, its substantial private armies had been left with nowhere to go, and had split into a hundred factions.

"I don't rec-anize any of you mates," Zaeed said, accepting the glass the bartender slid his way with no more salutation than he'd given the gun in his face. "Logo on the shoulder's new to me too."

The gunman forced a grin, showing yellowed teeth. "We're Spacers."

He said it like he expected it to mean something to Zaeed, but Zaeed just shrugged. "Another two-bit CASAI merc army with a logo then," he concluded, sipping his drink. "Any of you Spacers been to space yet?"

The gunman growled. "Ain't got a ship yet, but Marko has. He says the aliens up there are ripe for pickin'"

Zaeed just shrugged. The Spacers weren't alone in that belief. It'd been half a year since the war with the skullfaces had ended, but still nobody on Earth seemed to know just what was going on up there. Vido told them it would be opportunity, though. More than they'd ever see on Earth. "And… Marko," Zaeed said, "he's the one who saw the krogan?"

"Yeah." The gunman lifted his pistol long enough to point to the bleached skull above the bar. "_That _one."

Zaeed looked up, brushing his bangs out of his eyes again. "_That _one, huh?"

"_That _one," the Spacers confirmed, looking extremely proud of themselves.

Zaeed squinted at it with his remaining eye. "The one that's a… cow jawbone and the back half of a crocodile skull?" The macabre trophy _did _look somewhat otherworldly, it was true, but there was a reason the owner had put it up so high it couldn't be easily seen.

The gunman scowled and jabbed Zaeed with the gun barrel, pressing it just south of his Adam's apple until it left a red mark. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he growled.

Zaeed's mismatched eyes darted from the man's reddening face to the other end of the bar and back. Vido had told him not to cause trouble. 'The Blue Suns don't need that kind of publicity,' he'd said. They would need to cultivate more respect than that if they didn't want to just end up like every other gang of thugs out there.

But screw it. Publicity was Vido's job. Jessie was still in her case on the floor, and Zaeed toed her under the bar and out of harm's way as he stood up. "I'm a Blue Sun," he growled proudly, staring up into the Spacer's piggy little eyes, and tossed the remains of his drink in the man's face for good measure. "And I'm the only bastard in here who's seen _real _krogan."

It had a predictable response. The gun went off just inches from Zaeed's head as the man sputtered. Even over the ringing in his ear, Zaeed could hear the bar fall silent, as well as the sound of the first bottle he could reach bashing down on one of the goons' heads. The man went down with a satisfying crash.

But then the other goon had him around the neck, and the gunman's pistol came down on his skull so hard he almost lost his false eye. Zaeed saw stars explode in front of his vision. He howled in pain as the Spacers dragged him down to his knees on the bar's floor. The leader's boot slammed into his stomach hard enough that Zaeed almost forgot to breathe, while the conscious goon gave him another hook to the face.

Zaeed was bloodied and beaten before the men finally stopped, his nose and head throbbing and his breath coming in short gasps. He could feel the dust sticking to slick of blood over his broken nose. The gunman's pistol reintroduced itself to the back of his head one final time, and this time he had nothing smug to say.

"Tell us the story, little 'Blue Sun'," the big man growled, grinning. "Tell us about 'real' krogan you saw, if you're so sure." He had a fistful of Zaeed's hair in his free hand and gave it a good yank, jerking Zaeed's head back and dragging him up to a kneeling position.

"You… got it," Zaeed grunted, licking bloodied lips. "It was a few months ago, right after they pulled out of Sudan. CASAI recalled us to Johannesburg for new orders. Saw a few of the lizards outside one of the ships." He swallowed heavily. "They're bigger than that, for one thing," he said, gesturing to the faked skull on the wall with his chin. "Bigger and meaner. A good two feet taller than anyone in here. And they hate humans. Hardly saw 'em and one was already trying to rob me. Told me to give him everything I had."

The men grinned. "Did you do it?"

"Hell yes I did," Zaeed said, unashamed. "His arm was bigger around than my whole goddamn body. I gave him my money, my favorite knife. Goddamn near everything. Don't think he even wanted any of it, just wanted to take it."

"Some story," the Spacer leader said, rolling his eyes.

"But then he told me to hand over Jessie," Zaeed said.

"You took a woman to a merc base?"

Now Zaeed rolled his eyes. "What would a krogan want with a human girl, you dumb asshole? No. My Jessie. My favorite goddamn thing in the world. Had her in a case on my back. Big bastard points to her, tells me to hand her over. I think so, anyway." The bar was silent, listening to him talk. "I said he could kiss my ass and he broke my arm in three places." Zaeed shrugged his right shoulder, remembering how his arm had seemed like so much putty in the krogan's thick hands.

"Woulda been dead," Zaeed admitted, "but the stupid bastard dropped me for dead and tried to take Jessie. Grabbed my knife with my good hand, stabbed out his eye, and ran like a little bitch."

"Bullshit," the Spacer leader insisted.

Zaeed shrugged. "Look it up. CASAI put the krogan down."

The bar was silent, and Zaeed caught a glimmer of movement behind the Spacer.

"That krogan barely _flinched _when I stuck my knife in him," he said, staring into the man's eyes. He rose to his feet and the Spacer allowed it, though his hand remained firmly entangled in Zaeed's hair and his gun to his throat. "They don't give a shit what you do to them. Your buddy Marko is bullshitting you if he said he put so much as a dent in one."

The man looked impressed, despite himself. "And then what happened?"

Zaeed stared at him and grinned. "Then I kicked around for a few months until I got pistolwhipped by some little bitchass in a bar who didn't know I had backup."

The little bitchass looked confused for a half second.

Then a barstool cracked him over the head and he went down. The third Spacer found Zaeed's fist in his face a half second later, and he joined his brethren on the pile.

The bar was quiet for a few seconds.

"'Bout bloody time, Vido," Zaeed growled, returning to his seat and smoothing his hair out as the crowd lost interest and returned to their revelry.

Vido just grinned, setting down the barstool and taking a seat next to his friend. "I was busy, Massani. Busy _working_. Not drinking, like some people. You're lucky I showed up at all."

Zaeed ordered another two drinks with a wave and said nothing. His head was pounding under the beating the men had given him, but now that Vido was here he doubted he'd have any more trouble. Vido rarely went anywhere without backup. The rest of their fledgling Blue Suns was probably outside. "You catch all that?" Zaeed asked after a moment.

"Sure did. Marko's got a ship."

"Wonder if he might part with it," Zaeed offered.

Vido just yawned. "One way to find out," he said, kicking the unconscious mercs on the floor. "We'll introduce his buddies to the Duke, see what they think." Their drinks arrived and Vido took his, sniffing it and wincing before downing the whole thing in one determined swig. He swiveled on his stool. "You didn't tell them the whole story," he pointed out.

Zaeed shook his head. "No sir. No I did not."

"You didn't think they would want to hear about how the great Zaeed Massani fought an alien monster one-armed to protect a cheap ukulele?"

"Jessie is _not _cheap," Zaeed growled. "And she's a _mandolin._"

Vido just grinned and patted Zaeed on one armored shoulder. "You know, someday you're going to lose that thing, Buddy," he said. "And I'll buy you a gun you can name Jessie."

Zaeed shook his head, smiling despite himself as he lifted his drink. "Not on your life," he said. Beneath the bar, his foot touched Jessie's case and he breathed a sigh of relief

* * *

_468 years ago…_

_–_

"Everyone has their masks on?"

Balirri's voice crackled from the communicator tucked into Samara's frills but even so she could barely be heard over the roar of the wind and the thrum of the ship's mass pulse engines. The ship's VI pasted the words across Samara's visor.

She read them and laughed. "They've been on since we lifted off," she called back, grinning. Her three daughters, bundled up in the seats next to her, had been wearing their oxygen masks all week in anticipation of this ride. Before it had been out of excitement but now even Marihn's normally-fearless eyes were wide as the ship ascended and Thessia's watery surface shrunk beneath them.

"First timers are always scared," Balirri's voice came back. "But don't you girls worry, me and your mom have done this _hundreds _of times. Sometimes even without chutes." Samara gave Falere's knee a reassuring squeeze. She gauged 'hundreds' to be a little exaggerated, considering how rarely the weather allowed for skydiving, but it was true she and Balirri had been doing it since their mercing days, centuries in the past.

The caternar ship continued to ascend into the upper atmosphere, and the sky outside the viewing slits darkened. Samara could see the airship's many sculpted plates – which had shifted and fluted the air until they sang at lower altitudes – falling still as the air continued to thin. A thin layer of frost made the passenger cabin sparkle.

Samara's daughters' breath fogged up their masks until they could barely see. Falere, her oldest, stared out one window with expression fixed halfway between wonder and some kind of stomach illness. "We're not going into space, are we mom?" Her skin had gone indigo in the cold, her headfrills shrunken, her teeth chattering.

"Of course not," it was Rila, who'd barely looked out the window the entire flight. She hiked her thick coat up further around her frills until only the silver of her eyes could be seen peeking out. "Caternars aren't spaceworthy. It'd just fall out of the sky as soon as it lost grip on the air."

Marihn turned to face her sisters, her impish grin foreboding even behind her mask. "If we didn't get sucked out through the windows first," she taunted, looking more than a little amused by the prospect. Marihn had inherited Samara's face but none of her personality – Samara was happy to blame the girl's love of mischief on her mate Iaria's genes alone.

"Don't torture your sisters, Marihn," Samara said, feeling the lurch as the ship slowed its climb. The gentle pull of gravity seemed to lessen as they climbed to the extremes of the atmosphere. "They've been waiting for this as long as you have."

"Rila wouldn't go if you didn't force her," Marihn's grin wouldn't leave. "They're just scared there will be a storm." Falere's knee jumped under Samara's palm.

"There will _not _be a storm," Samara insisted. "That is why we waited so long. For the perfect day. Remember?"

And indeed, as the ship finally stilled and the doors slid back to flood the cabin with light, they could see that today was the day. Samara tightened her visor and leaned out into the wind to look down. Below, Thessia's vast Sara Sea looked even bluer and calmer than had on the ground, its surface only broken by a peninsula of blue-black islands to the west. It was a rare day when some storm or another was not whipping the water into froth, but today it was as balmy as a Kahjean spring, with hardly a smattering of clouds beneath them.

Samara smiled back at her daughters. "Are you ready?"

Marihn was out of her seat's harness and next to her mother in an instant, poking her head out to stare at the ocean below. Her eyes widened and she mouthed a silent 'wow'.

"What are the rules?"

"Stay in view of each other, be gentle with our biotics," Rila started to list, counting on her gloved fingers, "start small and work up. If the wind changes suddenly or we feel too dizzy, activate the chutes. When we land stay in place and activate our beacons for pickup."

Samara nodded. "And have fun," she added, patting her daughter on her hooded head.

Balirri set the ship to hold its position and came back to help double check the three daughters' gear. She'd once been one of the most feared mercenaries in the galaxy, but now the easy grace that had made her such a foe on the battlefield was spent helping other asari get dressed. Her calloused hands were quick and sure as she worked over each girl. Oxygen masks were adjusted, chutes given one last test, amps secured, flotation vests cinched tightly over the coats.

Soon all four of them were perched on the edge of the ship, staring over the precipice for one last look down. Thessia looked very vast and wild beneath them, nothing like the mother goddess painted on the temple walls. There was fear and excitement and anticipation in the thin air.

"Well…"

Samara was almost astonished when Rila jumped first, looking grimly determined to live the day out without enjoying herself. She disappeared and was swallowed up by the empty sky. Her sisters – not to be outdone – were not far behind. Samara watched them dive out into the nothingness.

Samara herself lingered in the doorway for a moment to share a look with Balirri. The woman had been a friend of Iaria until she'd passed away, and Samara could not help but see her dead bondmate's look of mischief in the pilot's eyes. They grasped each other's hands. "Thank you, sister," she said.

Balirri smiled even as biotic energy licked around her. "Anything for you, Samara," she said, and pushed. Samara found herself hurtling out the open door. Balirri's voice followed her out in the communicator "You try to have some fun too!" she called.

–

Samara corrected her inelegant exit, twisted and dove, leaving the caternar ship and her old sister behind. It had been many decades since she'd felt reckless enough to do some biotic skydiving (and longer still to do it without the safety net of a chute), but now that she was back she felt the wind slide over her like a familiar skin. It slicked over her body as she dove, dropping like a stone towards the three black dots that were her daughters. The air caught her as it thickened, until she gave herself a biotic push and sliced downward like a meteor. It was only seconds before she'd caught up with her daughters (she didn't even need the communicator to hear the laughter over the wind) and flattened out, slowing with another gentle biotic push. The wind cushioned her like an old friend.

She sat on the air and watched her daughters play. Blue flashes filled the air as they pushed and tested their biotics. Rila and Falere bounced together and flew apart over and over again, breathless with laughter. Marihn was off to one side, her corona trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.

Their movements were unstable, undisciplined, but that was the point – biotics while free-falling were very different from biotics on the ground. There was no comforting force holding you down and correcting your mistakes. It took weightlessness to teach a biotic what gravity could do – away from the ground a reckless biotic push could send you careening away in the opposite direction. Every field had to be sent with the absolute economy of energy, with the utmost awareness for how it would affect the gravity around it.

To be a great biotic, you had to be light. Calculated. Disciplined. It took most asari centuries of practice in zero-g to learn that lesson well.

"Smaller fields, Rila!" Samara called when her two elder daughters went bouncing away again under a misplaced push. "You don't need so much strength." She went after them as demonstration, rolling in the air like she was swimming. Her fingers barely shimmered as she swept over to them, gliding with only the slightest gestures to adjust her course.

"Think of it like blowing out a candle!" Marihn called, hurtling by. She dodged and weaved through the air with more natural grace than her sisters, correcting her path as her mother had done.

The four of them fell for minutes, guiding their fall with biotic pushes. Below them, the ocean grew wider and wider, until they could see the tiny white caps on the waves and make out the forms of dozens of shallow atolls just under the water's glassy surface.

–

Samara was halfway through teaching her daughters how to balance themselves in a stable somersault when she they dropped through a pocket of denser air and she felt a slight pulling at the back of her head. She stopped mid-sentence, rolling onto her stomach to stare down at the water with a disapproving grimace.

Perhaps it was just nerves that compelled her – the weather reports had looked encouraging all week – but if there was anything her long life had taught her it was caution. The winds could always change.

A detail caught eye and she blinked. She looked again, tracing her gaze across the sea surface until she saw it again. A lip of water traced a quiet front of movement across the ocean. Then again, a few hundred meters further. Then again beyond that. Giant striations made their way across the ocean like ripples in an enormous pond. They were subtle – probably only a meter tall – but Samara knew what they meant.

Wind.

"Mom?"

Samara frowned. "It's time to stop," she said, holding a hand out below her to see how fast they were being blown off course. "The wind is picking up." There was another reason young biotics trained free-falling over Thessia. The planet's crust was so enriched for element zero that the air itself maintained a permanent biotic presence. On a still day it was unnoticeable, but when the wind started to blow the great field that cradled all asari started to warp, and the biotics warped with it. Down would no longer be down. Indeed, now that Samara had noticed it it was hard to imagine how it had escaped her gaze so long – they were no longer falling strictly downbut at an angle, towards the islands. Her amp tingled.

Her daughters followed her gaze down, their merriment forgotten under Samara's grim face. Except for one, of course. "It's not so bad," Marihn insisted, doing a little flip in front of her sisters, as if to tempt them back into their play.

"It's bad," Samara insisted, heart pounding at the fluttery feeling in her head. "We will do another dive later but this one is over. Activate your chutes." She reached for the button on her bracelet-concealed omni-tool that would release her own.

"The water's still like a million miles down there," Marihn complained.

"_Now, _Marihn," Samara said in her Mother voice.

There were two great _whumps _as Falere and Rila activated their chutes. Holographic warning panels bloomed from the tails of the fabric that billowed behind them and Samara could feel the air ripple under the mass effect fields that flickered on to slow their fall. The girls' descents arrested, they seemed to suck up into the sky.

Marihn kept hers off, even as Samara felt the wind strengthen.

"_NOW_," Samara repeated. She felt a bump as the two of them hit another pause in the atmosphere. The wind pushed again, stronger this time, and their falls twisted again, the angle widening as they started to drift further and further west. The gulf between Samara and her daughter widened quickly, and Samara pushed to close it as best she could.

Marihn was unafraid. "I can't."

"What?"

"I'm just going to land with my biotics."

The wind pushed again. Samara felt panic welling in her gut as the distance between her and her youngest daughter grew vaster and vaster still. "_No, _Marihn. You're too young. You'll hurt yourself."

The communicators started to buzz with static, but Samara could still hear the first hint of fear creep into her daughter's voice. "You said you did it."

"I was ten times your age, and I didn't have a mother to tell me when I was being foolish. _Activate your chute, _young lady, or by the Goddess I swear I'll-"

"I left it on the ship."

Samara felt her heart fall away from her. "_What_?" Some part of her wanted to yell, but the rest knew there would be time for that later. Her mind raced. Landing with biotics alone _was _possible – she'd done it quite a bit in her more reckless days – but it took a precision that would be difficult even _without _a windstorm, and as talented as Marihn was, she was still very young. As if to remind her of this, the wind howled in her ears. Samara came to a decision in a flash. "To me, Marihn!" she commanded. They could share her chute.

She saw the blue figure that was her daughter stall and slow in the air, blue coronas flaring spastically around her. She was losing her balance and Samara's breath caught in her throat as the girl floundered for a moment before regaining her direction and pushing again. Marihn came flying back towards her, trailing ragged blue. "I was trying to impress you, I was-"

The wind gave a quick bump and there was a flash of blue and a scream. Marihn's sentence was cut off as she hit an eddy. One of the fields around her hands blossomed out with a tremor so hard Samara felt it buffet her forty meters away. Samara could only watch in horror as her daughter's own push hiccupped and sent her spinning away in a blur.

There was no time to react and so Samara reacted in no time, limbs flashing out behind her in an instant, her daughter's screams echoing in her ears as she dove. All of her past warnings about using weak fields disappeared and her own biotics burst behind her in a little blue explosion, sending her shooting towards her daughter like a bullet. The push came fast and unbalanced in the wind – the eezo in the air warping the field and sending Samara off course.

Marihn was screaming. She fell now like a stone, the blue gone from her fingers, her arms flailing with all the grace of a drunken elcor. Samara could not see it but she knew the girl's amp had almost certainly shorted out.

This was why they'd tried so hard to avoid the wind – this was the true danger. It wasn't that Thessian winds were strong, it was that they were loaded with element zero, so much it could confuse biotic fields and stretch them out of shape. It wasn't a problem on a still day when the eezo was evenly hung, but as soon as things got turbulent the blow the great field that cradled the planet warped until even minor biotic maneuvers were potential dangers. A strong field in a strong breeze could turn into a shearing warp or a minor singularity in a heartbeat.

A wise asari wouldn't push at all in the wind, but Samara had no choice. She felt her fields rebelling against her, warping and twisting in the uneven wind even as she pushed harder, willing herself faster and faster. One field shifted down on top of her so suddenly she felt the air knocked from her lungs but she compensated and swum beneath it, diving and diving and diving after the falling girl.

The ocean continued to widen beneath them.

Marihn continued to scream. One kilometer left. Nine hundred meters. Eight hundred. Seven hundred. Six.

Samara felt the wind abate and gave one last great surge of power.

The distance between them disappeared and Samara hit her daughter like a magtrain, arms locking around the smaller asari hard enough to bruise.

And then her head exploded. Stars flashed across her vision, pain and pleasure licked through every nerve in her body until everything sank under white-hot agony. She felt like she'd been hit with a brick. Purplish shadows seemed to trace across her vision as she gasped for air, only dimly aware of her daughter scrambling for purchase in her arms.

But blindingly aware of every thought her daughter had.

She couldn't move. She couldn't think. All she could feel was _pain_.

She blacked out with less than three hundred meters to go, her last memory of Marihn pulling her chute.

–

She woke up to the feeling of sand on her back, and four asari faces looked down at her with wet skin and wet eyes. The sky above was tauntingly clear, the air tauntingly still. Only the slightest breeze swept across her skin.

Samara blinked and felt the hollowness of her own head fill up with a rush of pain. She gasped, biting the feeling back.

Someone was talking. To her.

"'Mara? Mara! What happened?" It was Balirri. The woman's face came to focus.

Samara just gaped, her tongue filled with the same foamy painful nothingness as her head. She replied something she hoped was 'I don't know' but it came out more like a pained grunt. Balirri seemed to understand well enough, though, and squeezed her hand.

"Marihn called for help. We'll get you out of here soon."

Samara swallowed dryly, ignoring the stitch of pain. "My daughters?" she managed, not fully registering the fact that two of them had their arms already wrapped around her.

"They're fine."

They were crying. "Marihn?"

"Here, Mom." Marihn was standing off to one side next to the limp contrail of Samara's chute, a communicator in her hand and cheeks stained by tears. Samara could see the fear and confusion on the girl's face.

But she didn't need to see it. She could _feel _it.

Marihn did not come to embrace Samara, and Samara knew it was because the girl was remembering the same thing she was, seeing the rush of pain and white noise they'd felt when they'd collided. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. In the heat of the moment, they had seen into each other's minds.

But it had _hurt._

It wasn't supposed to hurt.

–

* * *

**A/N: **So I have this little Word document that contains the outline for each chapter of this story. No major details - I save those elsewhere - but just the broad stroke ideas. What's the point of each chapter.

For this chapter, it says "12 flashbacks."

Fun fact #1: That is easier said than done. I wanted to do this chapter from the very beginning. Apologies it's so long-winded (AHHH) and rambling, but hopefully you find at least some of the flashbacks cool. No codex this time (fun fact #2: my original plan was to write 12 codexes for this chapter too...).

I've had some people ask me about the future of Interstitium. Suffice it to say I haven't decided yet. In theory I'd like to muscle through and finish it all, but ME3 is awful close and it seems plausible I'll want to write about ME3 when it comes out. I've also been tossing around ideas for original stories set in the ME universe for a while, along with going back and Interstitium-izing ME1 (I need to write about Saren, man). We'll see how it goes, what people want to see, etc. But no matter what happens, you **WILL **get the Legion chapter. Completely non-negotiable, as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway, all the usual sorries and thankses. Drop me a review if you find the time! I love to hear from you.

(Fun fact #3: I actually lost both of my hands writing this chapter. Unfortunately my beta wasn't so lucky.)


	21. Chapter 21, Recidivist, Garrus Vakarian

**Recidivist – Garrus Vakarian**

* * *

_6 months previously…_

–

Archangel didn't know how it had happened. He'd kept his face concealed the entire time. It was a matter of privacy and of practicality alike – as soon as he and his team had secured the lower levels of the compound, the slavers had tried to gas them out, slaves and all, through the garbage chutes. The gas – some kind of volatilized battery cell solution – blistered flesh on contact but did nothing to proper hardsuits.

But helmet or no, once the fighting was over and as Archangel and his team were lining the slavers up against the wall of their own control center, one of them had recognized him.

"Archangel." Melanis Tam tossed the bleeding turian at Archangel's feet, settling the retractable talon-crampons of his own boots on the slaver's back. The gas had been dispersed and Tam's helmet was off, his green eyes glittered down through Archangel's visor. "He wants to speak to you," Tam chuffed.

Archangel said nothing, peering down to look at the slaver.

"Mercy, clade-brother, mercy!" The turian scrambled at the floor, apparently unsure whether he wanted to grovel or rise. He tried to crane his neck to look at his captors, but Tam's weight on his back was too great. Still he tried. "I surrender myself to your judgment!"

Tam gave a throaty growl and pressed his rifle to the back of the turian's skull. The slaver gave a whimper.

"You can't let him kill me, clade-brother!" the slaver pleaded. "I am Dekehrus Clade! Teranus Romak, citizen of the fourth tier of Dekehrus Clade of the Hierarchy! I am a citizen! Your brother in arms!"

Behind his helmet, Archangel's brows rose. He placed a booted toe under Teranus' chin, lifting the slaver's face up to peer at his markings. Most turian gangsters scoured off their tattoos to cut ties with home, and Teranus' were hardly well-maintained, but two faded blue streaks ran under his eyes and back. A streak ran across the nasal bridge, and a pair of divided chevrons on the mandibles.

Dekehrus Clade's sigils. And Garrus Vakarian's.

Archangel said nothing.

Teranus' jaw shook. "I s-submit myself to judgment."

"You are a slaver," Archangel said.

"I confess," Teranus said instantly, eyes pleading. "Send me to Palaven to be tried by the exarchs. I will confess my crimes and accept my punishment with dignity. I will stand before Exarch Qatun and be judged."

"You gassed your own slaves to save yourself."

"I did. Let me pay."

Archangel stared at him for a long moment, trying to read the purpose on his face. They both knew if he stood trial on Palaven – under their clade's Exarch Qatun or any other – he would almost certainly be put to death. Turian justice was not about rehabilitation, not for slavers. It was about cleaning. Without a strong vouch of support from a higher officer – and there were few who would risk their careers – Teranus was doomed. It was possible he was hoping to escape before getting there, but somehow Archangel doubted it. Teranus wanted absolution. Forgiveness. The Hierarchy would have him killed, but once the price was paid his name would be redeemed. There would be no dishonor to Dekehrus Clade. No dishonor to Teranus' memory.

Garrus Vakarian had every reason in the world to agree. Even as long as he'd been away from his home, he still wore the Dekehrus blue, still maintained the sigils on his face. Still wanted to preserve his clade's integrity. He could send Teranus to his father at the clade-fortress. Maybe even send Tam as escort, to give the big turian some much-needed leave time on the homeworld.

The condemned and the condemning locked eyes. They were clade brothers. Citizens of the great Dekehrus lineage. Teranus was a little younger, but they might have even served in the same unit. They might have even met before, back home, when they were training. They served the Hierarchy, they served the Clade, they pulled together, they joined their strength. Justice for one was justice for both.

Garrus Vakarian had every reason to agree.

But Archangel shot Teranus between the eyes and got back to work.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

_Commander _Garrus Vakarian stared down at the galaxy and knew how it felt to be a Reaper. From this scale, entire clusters were barely pixels, inching around and around the galactic disc in a great spatial dance. He could see Palaven and the Citadel, Omega and Horizon, Invictus and Virmire. He could see the tangle of relay routes, the shimmering web of comm buoys.

The whole thing moved much too fast, of course. A ninety-thousand light year wheel existed on a scale so vast that half a thousand asari would live and die before it had shifted a single degree. He supposed the humans who'd made the projector didn't have that kind of patience. They needed the galaxy to move, even if only the Reapers lived long enough to watch it happen.

Still, he _felt _like he'd been watching it for eons.

"How about this one?" he asked for what must have been the thousandth time, summoning up the details of a new star system. A star and its planets bloomed up, magnifying to fill the CIC. There was a green/blue one – the humans called it Peregrine, apparently – and a host of rocky planetoids. A few comets, a century-old telemetry note about a possible platinum deposit, and that was it. No life. No settlements. A dark and empty system.

Next to him, Grunt peered at the holographic planet with a fierce intensity. "Okeer called this planet Goba," he recited. "It is not a suitable planet for krogan. The crust is laden with arsenic and there is nothing to eat."

Garrus resisted the urge to sigh. "Is it a suitable planet for _collectors?_"

Grunt considered this. "No, turian. This is not the one from my memory."

Garrus went ahead and sighed as he clicked to the next system, this one dominated by a trio of red-brown gas giants, and Grunt started over again. "Okeer called these Sora-tug," Grunt said this time. "Ships can be hidden amongst the planets' rings. Hydrogen argon atmospheres, some liquid helium. No habitable land." He paused, thinking hard. "It is not the planet either, turian."

Garrus clicked again, ignoring Grunt's newest monologue. They had been at this for almost an hour, ever since the krogan had come thundering up to the command deck bellowing about a newly discovered memory. It wasn't the first time it had happened – the crew had gotten used to ignoring Grunt's sudden bursts of passion about ancient topics that had filtered through Okeer's indoctrination – but it _was _the first time Grunt had had a new memory about the collectors. It was one of the only topics on which Okeer had left Grunt with very little to say.

But now Grunt was sure Okeer had spoken to a collector on a system deep in the Attican Traverse, and he had made it clear he wasn't going to rest until they'd checked the galaxy from one end to the other. Garrus didn't see much use in it – Grunt had angrily admitted he couldn't remember anything about the meeting – but it kept the krogan busy not forcing Cerberus' hand, so Garrus had gone along with it.

And besides, it kept Garrus' mind off his own troubles.

It had been two days and Shepard still wasn't back on his feet. And _Commander _Garrus Vakarian was beginning to hate his job.

He used to want this. Long ago, before his father had informed him he would be joining C-Sec, Garrus had fantasized about being a career soldier. A military exarch or even a general with forces at his disposal. Even on the SR1 there had been moments when he'd wished he were giving the orders.

But he'd since realized that the rules only got worseas you ascended the rungs, not better. The turians liked to say command was the burden of responsibility over those beneath you. Command was a duty and keeping it was a balancing act – there was never an underling's mistake so heinous the blame couldn't be given to his superiors too. Those ambitious turians iron enough to climb their way up the Hierarchy without falling were respected – adored even – but Garrus had come to accept that he wasn't one of them. On Palaven, Garrus was a citizen of the eighth tier – his father's big name had dragged him a few meaningless rungs above the rank and file – and that was more than high enough for him. Omega had shown him what happened when he overreached.

Garrus Vakarian never wanted to give another order as long as he lived. He would never tell Shepard as much, would never back out of what his friend needed from him, but the prospect of commanding even a ship so small as the _Normandy_ terrified Garrus more than any foe he'd ever faced. He was counting the minutes before Shepard would take the burden back and return him to nice, simple following.

"Next planet, turian," Grunt rumbled, voice impatient with anger. His pupils were slit thin, wheeling in their sockets with their usual intensity.

"Sorry," Garrus muttered absently. He clicked the map.

He didn't bother listening to Grunt's recital, but stared past him, to the humans working the terminals. They cast him and Grunt fleeting glances, distrust written on their faces. Garrus met their eyes without flinching, trying to project the right confidence. A real commander had to watch his crew. Had to set the right tone. Had to look cool, controlled, comfortable in his place.

Even if he wasn't.

Garrus wished he knew better how to read humans, wished he knew exactly what was making them so nervous. Instincts he'd suppressed since Omega flitted through his head as he stared back, trying to gauge threat the crew posed. It was obvious they were uncomfortable with him, but were they plotting something? Planning to ambush him as soon as the Illusive Man gave the signal? Or did they just not like the idea of a turian standing in their commander's spot?

The whole crew had been on edge since Shepard had gone under the doctor's knife. The collector trap had left their ship – their invulnerable marvel of technology – broken and limping, half of its systems burnt out. They'd been drifting for days while the engineers had labored to get the ship back into operation, and Tali had made it clear it could be days more before it was safe to go through another relay. Supplies were dwindling, climate control was gone, and everyone seemed to feel that their troubles had only started.

They were a broken ship and a broken crew. Loyalties were hidden and the only two who could put a stop to things were locked in their rooms.

Shepard had told him to be ready for Cerberus to attack.

Garrus wondered if saying so had made it a certainty.

"I've been to that one before." A voice behind them interrupted Garrus' thoughts and he turned to see Jacob standing by the elevator door. Grunt glowered at the man, but Jacob took no notice, casually approaching the map with a respectful nod towards Garrus. "Not a pretty place," Jacob continued, gesturing up to the planet on the display, "but it isn't uninhabited. It was one of our dead drop locations when we were putting together the resources for Lazarus Cell."

Grunt snorted and pawed at the ground in irritation. "Okeer remembers no outposts."

Jacob shrugged. "It was small, just a few prefabs. Probably gone by now."

"What do you want, Jacob?" Garrus asked before Grunt could fire back. Garrus couldn't deny it - he liked Jacob. The man had principles, and he was as solid on the field as any human Garrus had ever met. But he was still Cerberus, and he'd still spent most of the last two days in Miranda's room. He was best approached with caution.

Jacob looked at him. "Miranda wants to see you about the repairs. In her quarters."

Garrus' eyes narrowed in their sockets. "I'm not sure Miranda is in a position to be making demands of me."

"It's not a demand," Jacob insisted. "She just wants an update on how things are going. When you have a chance."

Garrus stared skeptically at the dark-skinned human, but Jacob was as unreadable as the rest of the crew, and just stared back with an expectant look. Garrus' mind raced. Miranda had admittedly – and to his astonishment – been nothing but compliant since Shepard had banished her to her room. How much of that was because Samara was standing guard was hard to guess, but it wasn't like she'd launched a coup as soon as Shepard was out of commission. Garrus supposed it was possible she was earnest.

"It is a trap, turian," Grunt rumbled.

Garrus nodded. "Of some kind or another," he agreed. He had no delusions. Miranda was dangerous, earnest or not.

"It's not a trap," Jacob said. "Listen. Shepard said you were in charge, and me and Miranda... we're going to try to respect that."

Garrus rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to believe that. "You _and _Miranda?"

"Well... me," Jacob amended. "I'm..." he hesitated, looking away. "I'm torn, Garrus. Shepard trusts you and so I will too. I'll follow your orders. But this whole situation..."

"Who will you side with?" Garrus interrupted.

Jacob didn't hesitate this time. "Miranda." He held Garrus' gaze, unashamed.

Garrus nodded and turned back towards the map. At least Jacob was honest. He wished the rest of the crew was as straightforward with their intentions.

"Send me," Grunt offered. "I will kill her."

Garrus ignored him, weighing the options in his mind. He wasn't made for this sort of subterfuge. He wasn't made for hidden enemies and hidden agendas. He was a turian, and turians had only two settings. But he had to try.

He made up his mind. He'd find out what Miranda had to say. He'd spring the trap.

"Keep looking for planets," he said, descending the stairs to the elevator. "Jacob will help you with the map." He stared at Jacob and gestured towards the map controls.

Jacob nodded. "Aye aye, sir."

–

Samara let him pass and he found Miranda alone at her desk, tapping at her console. Garrus had never seen the woman's quarters before – they were enormous, easily as large as Shepard's, if equipped with fewer aquariums. Unlike the rest of the ship, the room was spotlessly clean.

Miranda met his eyes as he entered. "Mr. Vakarian," she said, gesturing for him to sit. She'd set up a chair for him opposite her desk – he briefly considered ignoring it before deciding that was pointless pettiness. He sat. Miranda flicked off her console and stared at him. Garrus was no expert on human faces but she looked pleasant enough. "How is Shepard?" she asked.

He imagined she knew very well how Shepard was. "Blind," he said. "Dr. Chakwas doesn't want his eyes put online until the tissue around them has healed."

Miranda nodded absently. "And yourself?"

Garrus' mandibles flickered in irritation. "What do you want, Miranda?"

Miranda frowned. For a moment Garrus thought she would protest, but the frown disappeared as quickly as it had come. "You want to be direct," she said. "Very well. I want to know when you will have the ship repaired. It's been two days."

Garrus didn't answer right away. It was impossible to guess exactly how much Miranda knew about their situation, or what she intended to do when the ship was repaired. The woman had not attempted to emerge from her room since being incarcerated, but Garrus wasn't stupid enough to think that made her any less of a threat. Miranda had EDI, and EDI was the crux of everything. There was no hiding, not for those inside the ship nor for the ship itself. EDI could feed Miranda and the Illusive Man all the information she wanted and there wasn't a thing short of putting a bullet in the AI core that could stop her. With EDI, Miranda could do anything. And she wouldn't be alone – Jacob and the rest of the crew would take her orders over Garrus' no matter _what _Shepard said. As shaky as his command was already, it'd be gone in a flash if Miranda said so.

Still, she hadn't said so yet. Something stayed her hand. Garrus had some tools at his disposal. He had Shepard, he had Tali, he had Joker. And he had Grunt. The krogan was half the muscle on the ship and not even Miranda wanted to risk instigating him. He had enough – enough that Miranda was biding her time. If she bided long enough Shepard would be back and Cerberus' opportunity would be gone.

In the meantime, the only defense was silence.

Miranda pressed on. "The damage is too severe to fix in space - we need to dock. Is there a reason you haven't attempted to land the ship?" she tried again. "There is a Cord-Hislop facility not eight hours from here that would serve the purpose."

Garrus stared at her. "I would have thought that was obvious."

Miranda sighed. "Ahh yes. You think the Illusive Man will have men waiting for you." She shook her head again. "That wouldn't be sensible. You know that. There are too many variables. It wouldn't be his style." She looked at him. "You yourself could probably hold off a wet squad for days unless they wanted to gas the entire ship."

Garrus ignored the compliment.

"Cerberus has no intention of taking the ship out of Shepard's control," Miranda insisted, voice firm.

"You'll excuse me if I don't believe you."

"I disagree with Shepard's opinions on Cerberus," Miranda continued, "but I understand them. He has a personal investment. All humans do." Her eyes narrowed. "But you are a turian," she said. "You should be able to see past factional squabbles. What is Cerberus to you? Do you really see us as that different from the Alliance?"

"No," Garrus admitted. That was true. It was hard to put much stock in disagreements within other species – the galaxy operated more or less under the assumption that each species would smooth out its differences and present a unified front. The Council dealt with the humans as a whole – how the humans divided power up amongst themselves was up to them. Ultimately, humanity was still new, still finding its place in the galaxy, and while the Alliance had made great strides, there were still humans who sought alternative representation.

But it didn't matter much in the long run. Whether the humans admitted it or not, they were all in the same ship now. _All _humans were Cerberus, if not necessarily with the group. They wanted to pursue human goals, and there was precisely nothing wrong with that. Cerberus and the Alliance were just two approaches that were still figuring out the balance of power. Extremist splinter groups cropped up in every race – the asari commandos, the salarian STG, even the Council Spectres. Everyone had their own secret weapon, a group that didn't have to follow the rules. (As far as Garrus could see, the only race that _didn't _do it was the turians, and that was because they were already on top. You didn't need Cerberus when your military budget dwarfed the rest of the galaxy combined.) But eventually it all came into line.

The same would happen to Cerberus. It would be legitimized under the Alliance, just like the commandos had, just like the STG, just like the Spectres. Once the humans had gotten themselves organized, this problem would disappear.

Miranda was staring at him, letting him think, and Garrus immediately felt on edge. Some part of him was impressed at how easily the woman had intuited his thoughts and dragged the conclusion she wanted to the forefront of his mind.

That Cerberus wasn't the enemy. Not really.

"You're a soldier, Garrus," Miranda said simply, and she looked pleased. "You're a pragmatist. You know that this rivalry really only hurts our chances of stopping the _real _enemy." She paused. "Work with me. Help me calm this situation."

"Shepard doesn't trust you."

"And you wish to follow him. I understand. Shepard is a leader. He's decisive. He's passionate. He went chasing Saren on the basis of a _dream._ He came back from the death and two hours later he was back on the field killing security mechs. He's a leader."

Garrus just stared.

Miranda stared back. "Your loyalty is commendable," she said. "But you're not a leader. You never have been. You hate regulations. You hate complications. You took on all of Omega and won, and then were brought down by a betrayal. Why didn't you see it coming, Garrus?"

Garrus' mandibles pressed tightly against his jaw. He controlled his breathing, fighting the urge to tear Miranda's head from her shoulders for daring to mention Omega to him. How _dare _she speak of Archangel? How _dare _she tell him he should have expected what happened?

But the truth was, she was right. Garrus wasn't stupid. He'd known betrayal was possible. He'd even watched for it. But from one of his own squad. From a _turian, _no less_._ It was… almost unthinkable.

"Even now," Miranda continued, either not noticing Garrus' mounting anger or not caring, "you came to me when I called. I'm supposed to be your prisoner, Garrus. A smart leader would not heed the beck and call of his prisoner. It makes you look weak."

"So does being locked in your room," Garrus snapped.

"Perhaps," Miranda admitted. She reached a hand across her desk to a button on the console. "But prisoner or not, one press of this button, one little call, and I could have Zaeed and Jacob running." She locked eyes with Garrus, daring him to push her. "But I won't," she said, releasing the button. "Because I am smart enough to know that further threats will only complicate matters." She paused. "I have tolerated Shepard's treatment of me," Miranda said evenly, "and I have not left this room. But I am _not _weak."

Miranda pulled a datapad from one of her drawers and slid it across the desk to him. "Now, Mr. Vakarian, I still hope you will be amenable to reason, so I have prepared a list of suggested courses of action. I have arranged for the order of the required replacement ship parts from Hephaestus Cell to be delivered to the Cord-Hislop docking facility. But as little as I like the idea of entrusting the _Normandy_ to you, I am earnest in my willingness to compromise. If you are uncomfortable repairing the ship in a Cerberus facility, then I will have the supplies shipped to an alternative more to your liking."

Garrus stared at the datapad, flipping through it with a few button presses. It was quite comprehensive, full of schematics of the Normandy, repair procedures, along with dozens of facilities capable of extended atmospheric docking of a frigate-sized ship.

"You don't want to betray Shepard's request," Miranda said, voice quiet, "but you know I am right. Work with me."

Garrus was silent for a moment. "I suppose in exchange for this aid you want to be let out of this room…" he said finally.

"No need," Miranda insisted. "All I want in exchange is for you to believe me when I say I want what is best for the mission."

Garrus stood, folding the datapad under one arm, and headed for the door.

"Mr. Vakarian?" Miranda called. "Do you believe me?"

_I want what is best for the mission._

"Have your parts waiting on the Citadel," Garrus said, and walked away.

* * *

_6 years previously…_

_–_

The timepiece on Garrus' new C-Sec omnitool read that there were still two hours to go until nighttime – or at least what passed for nighttime on the Citadel – and yet the halls of the Vakarian household were darkened already.

Which wouldn't be so unusual if the lights were controlled by anyone but Atus Vakarian, who'd kept his family on Citadel time – fourteen hours light, six dark – even long after they'd returned to Palaven. All four of them had lived on the Citadel for years and grown used to the Presidium light schedule C-Sec had kept Atus on, and even after a year away, those habits died hard. Garrus knew his father would be up at first light – retired or not – for his morning drills. The lights came on, the lights came off, you woke, and you slept by the clock, and that was it.

So the darkness in his parents' room was more than a little unusual for Garrus. He loitered in the doorframe, head cocked as he listened for anyone awake within, but all he could hear was the metronomic beeping of his mother's life monitors all but drowning out the slow rhythm of her breathing. She was asleep.

Garrus crept away from the door as silently as he could.

Self-doubts still pulled at his head, but he was glad to see his mother getting rest. He'd bother her with them in the morning. He had a few days left before he would be expected back at C-Sec. He'd have plenty of time to find a moment to corner her alone, away from his father.

The rest of his family's home was as dark as his parents' room as Garrus tip-toed for the balcony, passing the closed doors to his father's study and Solana's room. His sister was no doubt enjoying their father's rare lenience and getting a few extra hours of sleep – the two of them had spent the day running themselves ragged touring her favorite parts in the fortress and the city below – and yet as much as he told himself he should do the same, Garrus wasn't tired. It was his first break from C-Sec since his family had finally moved his ailing mother back to the homeworld, but whenever he closed his eyes and tried to relax, his newest failure tugged at his mind.

First had been the turian, thin and dirty, his plates brittle. He'd been so nervous when Garrus and Anla had called him in, but when the blood had started to pool through his lab smock, he'd just looked resigned. He'd known it was coming. Then a pale elcor, its distended stomach criss crossed with scars. Two humans. Another turian. Two of them were too weak to even speak, but the others had the same name for them. Saleon. The elcor had taken Anla to their lab while Garrus rushed to the port authorities.

But they had been too late. Saleon had escaped, practically before Garrus' eyes, and the traffic controllers had just pointed at the regulations book and stared. Like they didn't care at all. The thought of that monster at large in the galaxy made Garrus taste gizzard-bile, and yet they hadn't lifted a finger to stop him. Against regulations.

Garrus had never felt so helpless.

He stepped out onto the patio and made for the railing that looked out over the clade's holdings. Even at night, the view was rather spectacular – the home Exarch Qatun had given his father spared no expense, high up on one of the pyramidal annexes dominated by the clade's finest hospital. They were hundreds of feet above the sprawling foot of the city, and Garrus could trace the roads all the way down to the magtrain stations that connected them to the rest of the planet. Dekehrus Fortress' main peak – where most of the clade's recruits and lower-tier citizens lived – loomed silently overhead, a blackened silhouette against the purple sky. It never truly darkened on Palaven – thirteen moons reflected enough light to blot out all but the most determined of stars and bathe the dark side of the planet in a perpetual twilight – but even then the turian cities were blazingly illuminated by massive mirror arrays that bled the excess energy soaked up during the day.

And yet even with all the light, it took Garrus almost a minute to notice his father sitting on the opposite side of the balcony.

"Too slow, Son" Atus Vakarian grunted. "If I had been an assassin you would be long dead by now." Atus was sitting, his back to the view, and staring at himself in one of the mirrored panels in the wall. He was trim as and polished in his home as he was any other time. He was in full armor – the blue-and-white uniform of the Dekehrus Guard – the only indication he was off duty the missing captain's medallion he normally wore around his neck. He was clearly halfway through taping his face, painstakingly stenciling out the edges of his dark blue sigils.

"Sorry Father," Garrus said, reclaiming his seat against the railing. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Atus snorted and adjusted one of his piece of tape. "Wasn't asleep," he said, checking the tape in the mirror for a moment before nodding his satisfaction. He paused. "You need to work on your situational awareness."

"I didn't realize you were up," Garrus said. "I assumed you'd gone to bed early with Mother." Really, the center of a turian fortress city was about the safest place in the galaxy – the rare turian criminals typically did not bother the fortresses. It was too easy to get caught. But all the same, Atus looked ready for action, like he expected the Blue Suns to drop by any second.

Atus turned and looked at his son. "Situational awareness," he repeated.

Garrus rolled his eyes. "Duly noted. Have you slept at all?"

"You look troubled," Atus said, reaching for the pressure painter on the bench next to him. "You shouldn't let that throw off your skills." He held the painter up to his mandible, pushed down the seal, and pressed. A faint hum filled the air as the machine forced fresh blue ink into his bony skin.

"There are other guards, Father," Garrus said, refusing to change the subject, "You need your rest."

Atus looked at him with the iron-gray intensity that had been so well known back at C-Sec. His mandibles fluttered in irritation, even as he drew the painter slowly down the length of his jaw, filling in the chevron there. "Is there some reason a buck cannot patrol his own home?" he snapped.

Garrus held up his hands in surrender. "Of course not, sir."

"I _am _the guard captain."

"Of course."

"It's _my _home."

Garrus just nodded until Atus returned to his painting. Father and son were quiet. It was an old argument. Atus had had to be dragged kicking and screaming into retirement. It was only when Primarch Fedorian himself had all but ordered it that he'd consented to a position leading the Dekehrus city guard. Still, a guard was a fair step down from a C-Sec officer, and Atus had been living the last year like a caged animal, angry and bored.

"It's those damn monitors," Atus admitted to the night, not looking at his son. "They drive me insane. I can't sleep in the same room with her." He snarled. "It's no wonder she's doing so poorly. Has to listen to her own vitals blaring in her ears." He moved the painter to the bridge of his nose and pressed again.

Garrus felt his stomach squirm. Really, his mother's heart monitors were almost silent. But of course he didn't have to listen to them all the time. "You can't take them out?" he asked.

"No." He shook his head slightly. "No. Medics said keep them in. They're good for her."

"Didn't the medics say you should move her to Helos?"

Atus pulled the painter away and stared into the mirror, checking his work carefully. He didn't look at Garrus. "The salarians said that," he said, moving on to his left cheek. "But our clade brothers brought us here for her sake. This is safest." He nodded fiercely, though Garrus wasn't sure for whose benefit. "This is the right course." He nodded again. "She will be fine."

Silence filled the air again. Garrus hoped he was right, but he'd read enough about Corpalis Syndrome to know the rest of the galaxy considered it a death sentence. If the turians had a cure, then the salarians on Helos wouldn't be working on it. Still, he'd always been told the Dekehrus medical corps was one of the finest in the galaxy. Maybe there was a chance. "She will be fine," he echoed.

Atus said nothing for a long time, just alternated re-tattooing his face and checking each mark in the mirror. Garrus watched him work in silence, trying to come up with the right way to say what was on his mind. About C-Sec. About Saleon. He had no delusions – his father _loved _to talk about C-Sec – but he knew already what he'd say about Saleon. And it wasn't something he could stand to hear just yet.

Atus eventually finished his tattooing and carefully peeled the tape away, revealing his freshened sigils, gleaming blue and perfectly shaped. Turian facial tattoos were quite permanent but they did tend to fade and distort over time, especially in older turians. Still, most turians only got them restored every few years.

Atus fixed his every week. He turned to his son. "Want me to do yours?"

Garrus shook his head. He'd been smart enough to touch himself up before coming home. He'd learned _that _lesson the hard way. Indeed, Atus spent a moment carefully scrutinizing every angle of his son's work, but eventually found nothing to criticize.

"Youth," he snorted.

"I want to go down to Pescus tomorrow," Garrus blurted out. Technically he didn't need permission – he was a citizen, after all – but it was easier to defer. Atus was not one to suffer any perceived disrespect from his children.

Atus stared at his son, mandibles fluttering in suspicion. His eyes demanded explanation for why his son – a Vakarian – would have business in one of the free cities.

"I want to see Rullios," Garrus admitted, not missing the way his father stiffened at the name. "Just a friendly visit."

Atus stared at him for a long moment, mind clearly racing. He had never liked Rullios – or any of Garrus' friends from his old military unit, really, but especially Rullios. He clicked. "Is he barefaced yet?"

Garrus shook his head. "I don't think so." (In truth he did not know, but Rullios had never been the sort to bend to traditions.)

Atus snorted, his disgust clear, and rose from his seat. He carefully twisted the blue cartridge out of the pressure painter in his hands and held it out. Garrus accepted it, and Atus turned away and stalked back toward the house. "Tell him to take them off," he snarled over his shoulder, and disappeared.

* * *

_Presently..._

_–_

Garrus fidgeted at the doorway to the Kodiak, listening to the sound of its pre-launch diagnostics as he tried to get his gauntlets to stop sliding. The primer gray armor plates he'd been wearing were some new polymer, lighter than he was used to, with a thinner under-cushion that didn't sit quite right on his arms, and for the thousandth time he cursed Grunt for breaking the worn blue C-Sec hardsuit he'd taken to Omega. Shepard had spared no expense on replacing it, of course, but he missed the scars – not to mention the thousand hours of tinkering he'd invested in it over the years. Garrus hardly felt like himself. He was unpainted, undeclared for any clade. It was like being barefaced.

There was no one around to see him fidget – for once the hangar was quiet. Any other day it would be a hive of activity – the _Normandy_ was luxurious but no one could call it overlarge, and only the hangar was spacious enough for any real work that didn't involve a console. And with Jack, Mordin, and Grunt having taken over the storage space on the upper decks, most of the ship's plethora of equipment – and even most of the crew's personal belongings – were stored here.

Or used to be, anyway. The hangar was nearly empty now, its contents having been evacuated when the ship lost power. By now the engineers' tale of how they had rescued the peripheral mass effect systems had circulated ship-wide, but as timely as their repairs had come, they hadn't stopped a half billion credits of cargo from getting tossed into the vacuum. Garrus could see the scratches on the floor where the aircar-sized shipping containers in which Mordin kept most of his laboratory equipment had slid out the open hangar, taking with them food stores, emergency life support systems, most of the ship's repair equipment, a half dozen exploratory probes, and what Kasumi had assured them was a small fortune worth of perfumes she'd 'acquired' on the Citadel.

Now the only thing keeping Garrus and the Kodiak company was the solitary crate that had been lucky enough to be in the loading crane when the fields had dropped (one of Mordin's - full, or so he claimed, of vacuum-sealed samples of infected tissue from the four new diseases he had discovered while on Omega. No one was brave enough to see if he was joking or not). A handful of the payload specialists worked in one far corner, testing panels of electronics Tali and the engineers had pulled out of the ship's ruined underbelly. Otherwise, the hangar was abandoned.

It was for the better. Garrus had instructed Grunt and Tali to make sure nobody left the ship without his say-so. They'd arrived in the Widow system almost an hour before, but Garrus was hoping that fact would stay secret as long as possible. Everyone had felt the ship shudder as Joker had taken her through a new relay, everyone had held their breath in hopes that the compromised safety systems would hold on. But as soon as the crew knew they would be landing at the Citadel, they would want to be let off. He didn't blame them – they _had _nearly died – but it couldn't be allowed. He had a potential security disaster in the making already. Letting a dozen or so Cerberus agents out of his view was the last thing he wanted to do now. At least until the ship was fixed.

For that they needed a docking bay, and with Cerberus' reputation (not to mention Shepard's) being what it was, finding one was easier said than done. On the first _Normandy_ they'd had leave to land virtually anywhere they wanted with a simple name drop or two, but those days were long over. Calling traffic control was out of the question, especially if he wanted their visit to stay quiet.

He had to find a bay big enough to service a one-of-a-kind frigate in a few days with no outside observation, no paperwork, and without paying for it. That was all.

The Kodiak's VI gave a beep. "All systems operational. Ready for flight." The door slid open with a hiss. Garrus turned. He'd have to make this fast – sooner or later someone would ask why Joker had sheathed all the ship's windows. Garrus sent a quick message to Tali and stepped up into the waiting shuttle.

"Garrus."

The voice almost made him jump. He turned to see Thane, back stiff and hands folded behind him. He gave Garrus his usual brand of respectful nod.

"Later, Thane," Garrus said, reaching to close the door.

"I would like to accompany you to the Citadel," Thane said, undeterred. Garrus stared at him. Thane was unreadable as always. A little paler than Garrus remembered him – he supposed the rumors of the assassin's illness were true – but steady as stone. As if reading his thoughts, Thane held up a hand. "Rest assured, I've told no one of your destination."

"Who told _you_?"

"EDI," Thane answered.

Garrus didn't bother hiding his suspicion. Thane had never given him reason to doubt his intentions, but the fact that EDI was handing out information he'd rather keep silent made him worry. It was hard to imagine Thane lying or sneaking at all – it just seemed out of character – but that same simple literality would make him easy to manipulate. "I think it's best I do this alone, Thane."

"As far as I know I have no official connection to this ship," Thane said. "I have maintained a small residence on Tayseri Ward for nearly a decade – my presence will hardly cast suspicion. Allow me to join you. At the very least, I can purchase critically needed supplies for the crew. EDI provided me with a list." He stared at Garrus with his dark eyes. "With my own funds, of course," he added.

Garrus chuffed. He waved his hand. It might not be bad to have backup. And besides, even Grunt wouldn't stand out amongst the crowds of the Wards – Thane would be utterly invisible. "Fine. Get on."

Thane bowed and followed him onto the shuttle.

–

The two rode most of the way in silence, speaking only briefly to coordinate a temporary landing site with traffic control. The Kodiak shuttle was unregistered (Cerberus was bold enough to put their logo on it, but no further), but Garrus had a half dozen codes still saved from his time at C-Sec, along with a lie vague enough not to raise undue suspicions. Transport security had gotten a lot tighter since Sovereign's attack, but at the end of the day it was still bored C-Sec officers manning the terminals, and none of them cared enough to verify Garrus' story. They were directed into a holding pattern to await a landing pad.

It was quiet, even as the sound of the weak atmosphere that clung around the Citadel's bulk buffeted the shuttle. Garrus plotted out his moves, absently picking at his gauntlets as he pawed his way through what he was about to do. Even if he went crawling back to Miranda to get Cerberus to buy their way into a private bay, no amount of money could get them in and out without being noticed. There were secure docking facilities near the Presidium that offered just that, but Garrus knew too well how poorly they worked. Someone always talked when a place like that got an interesting visitor.

Which meant he needed to hide the _Normandy_ someplace big. He needed to call in a favor.

And he had burned a hell of a lot of bridges when he'd left this place.

As if to mock his apprehension, traffic control chose that moment to find them a landing pad in a public spaceport on Bachjret Ward. The Kodiak's autopilot runtimes charted the course and there was a tremor as the shuttle slipped through the station's massive gravity well and began its descent. Garrus felt his gizzard tighten.

"I was not entirely truthful," Thane admitted, throaty voice piercing the quiet. Garrus looked at him. "I have personal business to attend to on Zakera Ward," he continued, "regarding my son. It will not take long."

Garrus nodded absently. It seemed almost comical. "That's fine."

Thane nodded back. "Thank you."

Garrus' mind was awash with possibilities. Even as he prepared to step back to a place he'd hoped never to return to, he found his head full of only Cerberus. As big an issue as the ship's repairs were, somehow he felt he was avoiding the real problem on his hands. On Shepard's hands.

Cerberus.

Some part of him just wanted to wait. Bunker down. Hold the line. Fix the ship and keep Cerberus from trying anything until Shepard was fit to return to duty. Then he could step aside and let Shepard deal with it. Miranda had been right. He wasn't a leader. His one attempt at being one had ended in betrayal, ended in disaster. Shepard would know what to do, and Garrus would follow until the day he died. He would be at Shepard's side, no matter what.

It made sense. And yet Garrus couldn't shake the feeling that he would be letting the commander down. There was more he could do.

Above it all, one thought flitted maddeningly in his head. Be Archangel. Don't be Garrus Vakarian, the impotent officer who hadn't been able to stop Dr. Saleon, who hadn't been able to stop Saren. Who hadn't been able to convince people the Reapers mattered.

Archangel wouldn't sit here and wait for Cerberus to attack. Archangel would make sure it never came.

Garrus wouldn't.

Archangel would lock them all in the hangar. Put Taylor and Massani in cuffs. Walk into Miranda's office and put a sniper round in her forehead before she could stand.

Garrus wouldn't.

Archangel would stop the problem before it stopped him. He wouldn't like the killing, but he would do what he had to do. He would do what Shepardnever could. He would take on that burden.

He would kill Cerberus so his friend wouldn't have to. Even if it cost him his friendship. If it saved the galaxy...

_No_. That's not who he was, not anymore. He wasn't Archangel. He'd played that part and he'd gotten his reward. The lines of loyalty were blurry everywhere you looked. Allies were enemies, enemies were allies. If you weren't paying attention you'd blow a hole in your only way out. Garrus didn't _want _to be a killer. He'd seen Saren. He knew what a killer was.

But maybe it didn't matter if he wanted to be a killer...

"Something is going to happen," Garrus found himself observing, if only to silence the pounding quiet in his head.

"Indeed," Thane agreed evenly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Most likely we will land."

"On the ship," Garrus clarified, casting the drell a withering glare. "With Cerberus. It isn't going to end well." Thane said nothing. "Shepard thought they were going to try to take over the ship," he continued. "Half the crew seems to agree."

"It seems unlikely," Thane said.

Somehow Thane's optimism didn't make Garrus feel any better. Worse still, Garrus found himself agreeing. Miranda had straight up said she didn't intend to mutiny, and he actually _believed _her. He wanted to agree with Shepard. Wanted to share in Shepard's rage, somehow. "If it does happen, what will you do?" he asked, looking to Thane. "If the ship erupts into open warfare?"

"How open?" Thane asked.

"If shots are fired."

Thane leaned back, looking contemplative. His inner eyelids nictated slowly from side to side as he thought. "Shepard has been nothing but accommodating to me," he said after a moment. "And he is a talented leader. I suspect he is a great boon to our chances." He met Garrus' gaze. "But I did not join this mission for his sake. If shots are fired, I will not take sides. I will fight the collectors if I must do so at Shepard's orders or Ms. Lawson's."

Garrus said nothing.

"I apologize," Thane added. "That was not the answer you wished to hear."

"No," Garrus admitted. He turned away thinking. Outside, he could the shuttle's retro thrusters engage. They would land soon.

"You contemplate rash action," Thane observed. It was not a question. "You fear what you will have to do if you are pressed."

"Is it that obvious?"

Thane smiled. "Only to one well familiar with the fear." Garrus stared at his feet. "I would not deign to advise you, Garrus," Thane continued, "but if I may, I would pray for you."

Garrus shrugged.

If his indifference mattered at all to Thane, the drell gave no sign. He closed his eyes and rested his hands together, and Garrus found himself doing the same. "Quetarch," he began, voice a ragged whisper only barely audible over the sounds of a noisy spaceport, "Arbiter of wise sin. Justifier of will. Heed your child, who acts through you."

_Heed Archangel,_ Garrus added in his mind. He was the one who needed it.

–

Garrus' lie got them to the spaceport, but it hadn't commanded much time, and they had hardly set down before a cranky human port worker was trying to shoo them off so the next craft could land. Garrus waved off Thane's attempts to pay for a longer berth and signaled the Kodiak to resume its holding pattern around the station – it was best as few people as possible see an Alliance craft design with a decidedly un-Alliance paint scheme. Civilian Kodiaks were not unheard of (amusingly enough, most often sold by batarian merchants, reverse engineered from captured Alliance craft), but it didn't do to be incautious.

They parted ways, boarding separate airtrams for their own home wards. For Garrus, stepping aboard the tram - leaving Thane behind - was like stepping right back into his old life, back to his morning commute to C-Sec. Garrus shuddered at the eeriness as the craft hissed its way out of the station. Everything was like it was before. The same murmur of the crowds, the same rude graffiti scrawled across the seats, the same high pitched hum and claustrophobia. It was like it was three years ago, before any of this mess. Before Shepard and Saren and the Reapers and Cerberus. Garrus had changed, but the Citadel was eternal. It was like he'd never left, and he found his head filled with old anxieties. Whether he'd have to face Pallin again. Whether the dextro stimdrinks would be burnt this morning or not. All the petty concerns that had troubled him in his old life.

Still, as unnerving as that was, Garrus couldn't help but appreciate the airtram's proper turian seats. They were hard and cheap but still felt worlds better than any of the posh human chairs on the _Normand_y. He settled into one of the corners and closed his eyes, ignoring the Avina tour he'd heard a thousand times and trying not to overthink things.

The ride was longer than his commutes used to be, but all the same too short, and before he knew it Garrus found himself standing by the ward-side entrance to the Aroch Ward Citadel Security Headquarters. The station was busier than he ever remembered it – a line of a half dozen species wound its way out the front doors into the street – but perhaps that was because he had always come in through the officers' entrance.

He resisted the urge to do so again as he took his place in line. He wasn't an officer anymore. A nearby Avina waved to him. "Greetings and welcome to the Aroch C-Sec Headquarters, _NAME WITHHELD BY REQUEST_!" she called with her usual sterile cheerfulness. "You are number _ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY ONE_ in line! Please wait. An officer will be with you in approximately _FOUR STANDARD HOURS_. Have a nice day!"

Garrus did his best to ignore her, even as she greeted each person showing up behind him. He had forgotten how much he hated the Citadel.

He tacked the leg locks on his armor and waited.

–

Avina had overestimated. It was hardly three and a half hours' wait before Garrus found himself in an office in the former wards access tunnel with one Officer Reynolds, a red-headed human man that reminded Garrus of a far less confident Ken Donnelly. Garrus was fairly certain he'd never met Reynolds before, which he supposed was a blessing and a curse all at once. Someone he'd served with might be more willing to help him. Or maybe they'd remember some of the things he'd shouted on his last day and kick him out on his uncomfortably-armored ass.

As it was, though, Reynolds was clearly one of the legions of new officers C-Sec had been hiring since Sovereign's attack. Garrus could see the man's hands waver ever-so-slightly as he handed him a datapad form to fill out – perhaps he was still just nervous around turians. Garrus took no offense and calmly entered his information, trying not to grimace at the familiar red tape.

Reynolds' eyebrows creaked up when Garrus handed him back the pad.

"Mr… Vakarian, your purpose here is… 'shopping'?" He tapped at the field in question.

"For a favor," Garrus clarified, eyes boring into the officer's. "I want to speak with Sergeant Anla."

Reynolds just stared at him like an intoxicated salarian. "Anl-"

"Yes, Sergeant Anla. Asari. One of the street officers. Used to partner around with a turian. She still work here?" Reynolds gaped, and Garrus sighed. C-Sec's finest, right there. "Asari are the blue ones."

"There's a detective named Anla here," Reynolds finally managed.

So. Anla had had a promotion. "Excellent. Take me to her," Garrus said, rising from his chair.

"I can't."

"Sure you can."

"She's busy."

"I can wait."

"It's against the rules."

Garrus' eyes must have narrowed, because Reynolds suddenly looked a little paler. Garrus felt his ire rising, his mandibles pressing flush with chin in frustration. Two years away, and he _still _felt a piece of him die whenever C-Sec's bloody rules reared their head. "Forget the rules," he breathed, staring down at the man. "I insist."

It was funny. Garrus remembered being on the opposite side of the desk. Now he was the one making things difficult. "I _will _cause a problem if I have to," he threatened, though he hardly knew what sort of problem he was prepared to cause. Reynolds looked a bit spongy, but C-Sec officers weren't known for being easily cowed. Wrex had always made it look so easy, coming into the station and staring down half the police squad every other week. Garrus had always suspected the krogan just dropped by to piss off C-Sec whenever he needed a place to spend the night. How had he always gotten away with it?

Reynolds' spine was finally showing as he stood up from the desk. "Do you want me to have you escorted from the station?" he threatened.

Perfect. Garrus grinned and put as much flange into his voice as he could manage. "I want you to try."

–

Garrus left Reynolds handcuffed to the bulkhead by his own cuffs, a gag torn from his shirt jammed in his mouth. He was mostly conscious, judging by the way his terrified gaze followed Garrus as he tapped at the office's terminal, as if every keystroke might be a killing blow. Still, he looked about ready to faint. Wrex would be proud.

Garrus ignored the human, navigating through the directory in search of his old partner's new posting. He found her. As Reynolds had suggested, Anla had since been promoted to detective, and was working with – Garrus grimaced – Chellik. The thought made Garrus feel a little ill. He had never imagined his former partner to have any interest in becoming a detective in the first place – Anla had always enjoyed the fighting more than the investigating when he'd known her – but implicitly replacing him with _Chellik_? That was low.

Garrus sighed. No time for that. Anla's office was with the other detectives'. Garrus saved the location to his omni-tool and rose. He tossed the gagged human a quick salute as turned off the lights and left the room, locking the door behind him.

He set off down the corridor.

Everything around him was new. He knew the area as part of the former wards access tunnel by its position relative to the station entrance, but to look at it fresh he would have never recognized it. The original tunnel was a straight corridor that branched off of the main station with some large waiting areas the Executor had used for everything from officers' messes to waiting rooms for solicitors. Garrus had never warranted his own office, and had spent many a night catching what sleep he could on one of the hard benches they'd used as makeshift cots.

Now it was all gone. The tunnel had collapsed under a piece of Sovereign's hull and C-Sec had taken the opportunity to convert it into a new wing of offices. The keepers that maintained the station were impossible to command, but they seemed to try to accommodate the sentients that lived around them. All it had taken was to put up a few haphazard walls in the tunnel and start using the area for offices and the keepers would pick up from there. Now the whole tunnel was a honeycomb of efficient, tiny offices, each so perfectly integrated into the corridor that it looked like the area had never been damaged at all.

He made his way to Anla's office without any undue attention. The electronic badge he'd stolen from Reynolds fooled the station's internal security computers well enough, and a quick lie about needing to find a restroom that could interface with his new armor worked on the officers. He wound his way to the detective blocks, and as soon as he found Anla's door, he flashed the lock and let himself inside to wait.

–

If Garrus hadn't known better he would have thought Anla didn't notice that her office door was tripped as she stepped into the office. She didn't even pause at the doorway as she tossed her coat on a waiting peg.

But she barely reacted when she flipped on the lights and found Garrus sitting in her chair.

She hardly looked at him as she ousted him with a gesture and plopped herself in his place. Garrus settled into the chair across from her as she called up her console as if nothing was amiss at all.

Still, Garrus could practically feel the chill come off of her. Anla was not a large creature. She was a bit shorter and stockier than most asari, and lacked their usual grace. But Garrus knew she had some of the quickest reflexes he'd ever seen in a non-turian, and the sort of biotics that might even give Samara a pause. She was not someone to be underestimated.

The seconds dripped by.

"Never thought I'd see you again," she observed icily, still not looking at him.

Garrus sighed. "I'm sorry," he said.

Anla didn't say anything. She still wasn't meeting his eyes.

Garrus sighed again. Oh well. "I'm sorry for running off on you," he said, counting out on his fingers. "I'm sorry for calling you a regulations drone. I'm sorry for calling C-Sec a bunch of brown-beaking mercenaries for sale to the nearest politician." Garrus paused, thinking. "And I'm especially sorry for leaving you to be partnered with Chellik."

She had nothing to say to that either, but she did finally spare him a glance, her eyes flitting over the top of her screen with a familiar scowling nonchalance, and Garrus knew he was getting through. "Never thought you'd take off your uniform either," she deadpanned, looking back to her computer screen. "I thought blue was your color."

"Blue is _your _color," Garrus corrected, but the joke fell flat.

Anla ignored it, swiveling her chair to face him. "What do you want, Garrus?" she demanded, tone all business.

Garrus was fine with that. "A favor. And to go through my old locker. I need something."

Anla shook her head. "Not a chance. After your little tantrum your dad came all the way from Palaven to pick up your things and sign your resignation." She stared evenly at him. "You can take it up with him."

Garrus cringed at that. The 'I quit C-Sec' conversation with his dad had gestated unsaid more than two years already, and Garrus knew putting it off only made it worse, but some part of him had always hoped it would go away. He was not looking forward to when that particular pouch hatched. "Two favors, then."

To Anla's credit, she didn't say 'no' right away like he was expecting her to. Garrus explained his hangar situation.

"No," Anla said, and turned back to her desk.

"We would only need it for two or three days. Just until we've repaired."

"No," Anla repeated.

"I-"

"_No_, Garrus," Anla snarled, standing from her chair with a jolt. Her biotics flickered. "_No._ You don't just get to storm off like you did then walk back in here like nothing happened! We thought you were _dead! _Do you know how upset Pallin was?"

Garrus crossed his arms across his chest. So she _was _still mad. "I gave up caring what makes Pallin happy a long time ago," he said, "and I've lived better ever since."

Anla pointed to his scar. "Looks like it," she snarled. "You were my _partner_, Garrus. My _friend_. And you left us to go play pirate on Omega."

"I'm not a pirate," Garrus growled, pushing his chair back and rearing to his full height. "Or a terrorist, or anything else you've heard." He would dwarf the little asari even out of armor.

Anla didn't care. "Then who are you, Garrus?" she demanded. "Why is your new ship so damn secret? You really think I'm going to help your terrorist buddies hide from whoever scrapped you?"

Garrus' eyes narrowed. "Yes," he breathed.

"Why?"

Garrus didn't answer her, just glowered back as he reached to unlatch the panel on his left gauntlet. It came loose easily and he slid his omni-tool's processing bar out, tossing it on Anla's desk. "There," he snarled, flopping back into the chair across from her. "You want to know who I am? You want to know what I did on Omega? There it is." He waved at it with disgust. "I took notes. Every damn thing I did, everything I saw. You could solve three dozen outstanding cases with what I have in there."

Anla looked at the omni-tool like it might bite her.

"The Serratia break-in we had a few years ago, where they stole that Matriarch's safes?" Garrus continued, "Found them in an Eclipse warehouse on Omega, twenty-seventh floor of Gosu district. Korta Sol, that volus delegate we thought was assassinated? Faked it. He's living under an assumed name under T'loak's protection. I can hand you every twice-damned thug that ever escaped from me, and tell you where I buried those who didn't."

"How man-"

"Dozens," Garrus interrupted. "Hundreds. I don't know. I didn't get this scar sitting behind a desk, _Detective_. Now are you going to give me what I want or not?" He stared at her with cool anger, hoping she wouldn't call his bluff. If she couldn't help him he'd have to go back to Anderson or – even worse yet – _Pallin_. He liked to think he wasn't that desperate.

Anla picked up the omni-tool and turned it on. True to Garrus' word, it was loaded to the brim with notes and documentation on the bloody warpath he'd carved through Omega's mercenary populations. "Is any of this going to incriminate you, Garrus?" she asked, voice quieter as she skimmed the thousands of documents with a flick of her hand.

Garrus sighed. "Not if you don't read it until me and my terrorist buddies are gone."

Anla looked at him. "So I have to take it on your word that this thing is worth risking my ass on…"

"Right. Yes or no? Do you trust your old partner or don't you?"

There was a long silence as Anla stared at the computer in her hand.

She tucked it in her drawer. "I'll see what I can do."

Garrus nodded. They spoke no more of it as he showed her the item he'd needed from his locker and she wrote him out a request for the requisitions officer, along with another for a replacement omnitool. He told her about where he'd left Reynolds and she laughed and for a moment they were partners again. Garrus thanked her and rose to leave, but her voice stopped him at the threshold. "Hey Garrus?"

He turned.

"While you were on Omega you ever run into Archangel?"

Garrus hesitated. He sincerely hoped she would keep that omnitool locked up until he was long gone. "Once or twice," he admitted.

"Huh." She shrugged. "The higher ups figured he was dead until we caught someone matching his description sneaking into Zakera Ward under a false identity. Turned out it was just one of his cronies, though. Had to let him go."

Garrus' eyes widened.

_Sidonis…_

* * *

_6 years previously…_

_–_

It was said only four kinds of turians lived in Pescus; the cladeless, the barefaced, the xenophiles, and the criminals.

Garrus was pretty sure he saw all four on the ride over, and by the time the magtrain slid to a stop in the shadow of Mount Fematus, he was already having second thoughts. He had been through Pescus once before – Pescus spaceport was one of the biggest on the planet, to many of the primary clade's frustration – but then he had just passed through from one shuttle to another, never leaving the clean comfort of the terminal.

On the ground it was a very different story. Garrus resisted the urge to unholster his pistol as he stepped off the train amongst a throng of other turians.

The cladeless, the barefaced, the xenophiles, and the criminals.

Garrus hoped his colors were clear enough as he turned down the main road that bisected the city. He'd been told stories all his life of the laziness and corruption of the free cities, cities full of turians who had turned their backs on the great fortress cities in the north. They were still members of the Hierarchy, but only barely, each having finished his or her required years of public service before retreating away from tradition. They were _dangerous_, to hear Atus Vakarian tell it. He'd absolutely forbidden Solana from accompanying Garrus, and while Garrus had rolled his eyes at the time, now that he'd arrived…

He hastened his pace.

His old squadmate Rullios was with the Spirit of Entrance, one of the larger mercenary groups that controlled the lower districts of the city. He did not want to spend any more time amongst the mercenaries than he had to – the faster he did his business, the faster he could leave.

Still, it was hard not to ogle the city as he made his way downhill. Everything was so… different. The fortress cities – really, everything the Hierarchy touched – tended to all look the same. They were marvels of engineering, designed from the ground up to trumpet a clade's greatness from the low tier civilizations at the top all the way down to the most lavish of ground floors, where exarchs lived in shaded palaces far from the sun's bite, but everything was uniform. Their construction had been standardized for hundreds of years, regulated to meet every safety requirement ever written, and aside from the clades' differently-colored heraldry, once you'd visited one you'd visited them all.

But Pescus had no ruling clade and it looked the part. The city lacked the great pyramidal turrets common elsewhere on the planet, its structures instead built into the rocky walls left behind by the ancient landslide that had swept away the city that stood there previously. Ships swarmed the spaceport that overlooked the city, from tiny Arakid fighters to superfrigates and trade craft that blotted out the blue-white sky. The city's inhabitants matched their pell-mell city. Turians from every clan and colony made Pescus their home, bringing with them heraldry and colors that painted the town a kaleidoscope of random loyalties. Traditionalists like Garrus' father had made the free cities the only safe haven for barefaces, and accordingly Pescus boasted a large population. Garrus passed a trio of barefaced guards, armored head to heel in the traditional white armor that meant they were cladeless. He passed yellow-robed xenophile monks preaching about the fat human god. He passed a whole regiment of dour Avarrosi mafia troops, their faces brazenly painted in their clade's colors despite being disowned more than three centuries earlier.

None of the strange circus of turians paid Garrus any mind, but all the same he avoided their gaze and continued on.

An hour of walking brought him to the mercenary districts, where a holographic interface helpfully pointed him towards the Spirits' headquarters. He thanked it and continued on, finally drawing his pistol. Really, he knew he was in little danger – the only crime turians had was organized crime, and there was no profit, no motivation in capturing a random Dekehrus citizen. He felt almost foolish – the only one on the street carrying a gun, even as mercenary recruiters propositioned turian soldiers fresh from discharge, promising them riches and adventure running guns offworld. Still, while mercing was considered a completely legitimate profession on Palaven, two years at C-Sec had trained him to fear them.

Many of the older mercenary guilds – the Whites, the Spirit of Entrance, the Three Sisters – were respectable enough – they'd been operating on Palaven so long they were practically clans of their own – but younger gangs and offworlders throve too. It was rare to see any alien on Palaven – most found the burning sunlight much too difficult to endure – but those that did were invariably linked (at least in the Hierarchy's mind) with the criminal element. Garrus found himself imagining Dr. Saleon behind every corner, or the elcor serial killer they'd stopped a few months previously, or the red-crested krogan merc who spent so much of his time threatening their officers.

And yet every corner was clean, professional. Safe.

Garrus ignored those thoughts as he reached one of the mercenary staging grounds and headed for a grounded transport ship that had been set up in a small plaza, ringed with barracks. The ship was the headquarters of the Spirit of Entrance mercs, and had been on the ground since before Garrus was born. Since then it had been modified and added to and built upon until it was hardly recognizable as a ship any longer. Beige-armored soldiers prayed at a small chapel in front of the ship's hangar access as Garrus approached, entreating the spirit of their unit to stay strong.

The guard at the ship's gangplank did not attempt to stop Garrus, but waved him through. The inside of the ship was pleasantly cool, and opened into a welcoming waiting room. A pretty receptionist had Garrus sign in on a datapad before directing him down one of the ship's corridors towards the barracks. Everything was clean and organized, polite and professional. More than one mercenary bowed to Garrus as he passed by.

It was all very turian.

–

Rullios, on the other hand, was _not _very turian. Garrus found him in one of the Spirits' tech rooms, both of his naked feet propped up on a desk and an omni-tool alight on one arm. He was humming to himself, apparently playing some kind of video game with one hand while the other scanned through a database, when Garrus spotted him amongst the towers of computer parts and holographic displays. Rullios Garell was as messy as his office, his vest wrinkled overtop of the beige smock that apparently counted as his Spirit uniform and a heavy pistol casually holstered at his belt.

He looked up when Garrus entered the room, his blue-painted mandibles flaring in excitement.

"Garrus!" he boomed, springing to his feet and wrapping his arms around Garrus' armored shell. "How you been, big guy?" He rapped his knuckles on the side of Garrus' armor. "I see you're still carrying the heavy," he said, impressed. "What is this, Cipritine Co-ax nine?"

"C-Sec standard issue," Garrus replied. He fingered Rullios' jerkin. "What is _this_? Burlap?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rullios batted his hand away, turning to find Garrus a place to sit. "I don't wear my tech so much anymore." He dredged up a chair from under a pile of datapads, sweeping them to the floor with a crash. Garrus took his seat, careful not to roll over any of them. Rullios' eyes were gleaming as he dove back into his own chair, propping his feet back up on the desk. "So how's C-Sec?"

Garrus nodded. "It's…" he paused as he realized he didn't know how to finish the sentence. "C-Sec."

"Ha!" Rullios barked, returning to his video game without a pause. "So I hear. Killing the bad guys and such." He drifted off. "Cleaning the scum off of the asari's asses."

Garrus shook his head and resisted the urge to smack Rullios'. The smaller turian had been a friend of sorts, back when they'd been in the Honored Sartriviius Forward Gunnery Division a few years previously. Rullios had had a bad habit of challenging authority, but he was an ace with a hand cannon and a bigger ace with machines of all kinds. Sartriviius division had made him a tech Sergeant without delay. He was even usually a good one, so long as he was kept sufficiently amused with his duties. He'd bonded with Garrus over a mutual love of gadgets, but after their service had ended, Garrus had moved to the Citadel to begin training as an officer while Rullios had headed on for Spectre training, along with-

"Flexibility was asking about you, by the way."

Garrus looked up. "Shara? Really?"

Rullios snickered. "Pfft. No. She's got bigger things to do now that she's a _Speeeectre._" He said the word with such disdain, it was hard to imagine he'd been the one slobbering over the title when the three of them had been informed they'd been accepted for Spectre courses. He kept playing his game. "So what do you want? Here to finally join up with the Spirits?"

"No," Garrus said emphatically. They'd talked about this before. "This isn't for me."

Rullios sighed and looked up from his game. "Yeah, yeah. Little Garrus still riding in his daddy's bucket. So what, then? What's a _Vakarian_ doing in this part of the world? Aren't you worried you might get something on your boots?"

Garrus hesitated. "I need some help."

Rullios went back to his game. "Interesting help or the boring kind?"

Garrus didn't know what to say to that. He decided to just say the truth. "I made a mistake on a case on the Citadel. A few weeks ago. Lost a perp I really should have gotten. Now he's off the station and C-Sec wants me to drop the case." The shame still burned at him. Still, it felt good to say it aloud.

"So what, you want a hit put out on him or something?"

Garrus recoiled. "No! Not…" he paused. "No. That's wrong. I just want justice."

"Yeah, yeah." The game made little zapping noises.

"I just want… a lead. Maybe I can catch him if he comes back. Or report it to planetary authorities if he's somewhere civilized."

Rullios finally put the game aside, dismissing the screen with a wave. He looked at Garrus. "You make me sad, Buck," he said, shaking his head. "Such wasted potential. You really think this guy's gonna go somewhere civilized? And even if he did - your cops couldn't stop him, why do you think anyone else's could?"

Garrus said nothing.

Rullios shrugged and pulled up to one of his consoles. "Name?" he asked, bored.

"Saleon."

"Salarian, then?" Rullios' talons were a blur on the console. "Any descriptors?"

"Red. Blue line tattoos. Tall for a salarian." Garrus tried to remember. "Sick bastard." He was ashamed he didn't have more. Aliens were still new to him – he'd seen so few of them before moving to the Citadel. Salarians especially had a way of blending together.

It didn't seem to bother Rullios. "Blue line on red, tall and lanky, probably Aimiti clan. He wear any sigils?"

"Not that I saw."

Rullios tapped some more, and Garrus waited.

"There," Rullios said, and turned the screen for Garrus to see. He leaned back in his chair and called up his game again. "Looks like he's Retos Heart now. Picked up a ship in Invictus, then made for the Horse Head Nebula."

Garrus couldn't believe it. There on the screen was Saleon. It was an old mugshot, taken before Garrus had even joined C-Sec, but it was Saleon all the same. The salarian doctor who'd kidnapped his own staff and run for it, escaping right between Garrus' talons. C-Sec had said he was done and gone, but Rullios had hunted him down in two minutes. "How?"

Rullios shrugged, clearly proud of himself. "The Spirits have sources, Buck."

"Shadow broker?" Garrus asked. He knew the Spirits had money but he'd never imagined it was Shadow Broker class money.

Rullios just grinned behind the game screen. "Among others. Turns out I have interesting things to say. Shadow Broker doesn't mind trading with me."

Garrus looked at him in disbelief. "_You _bought off the Broker?"

"Yup," Rullios confirmed, shrugging again. "Info for info. I clean his scales, he cleans mine."

Something was very suspicious. Rullios was talented – he had been chosen for Spectre training in Cipritine, after all – but he wasn't _that _talented. He was young. Low ranking in the Spirits. What kind of contacts had he made at the capital? Garrus found himself looking around the room. "And where do you get your info that he wants so badly?"

Rullios looked at him and grinned, utterly satisfied with himself. "That _would _be telling, wouldn't it?" He waggled his brows, daring Garrus to guess.

Garrus looked at him. Maybe one of the other failed Spectres was leaking him classified intel. Maybe even a Spectre – maybe Shara. Rullios was a gifted hacker – perhaps he'd just stolen it – but it was hard to imagine what he'd have access to that the Shadow Broker wouldn't. The Spirits' plans? Probably not worth much – the Spirits were pretty tame, mostly just gun-runners. Garrus worked backwards. Then he had it.

His eyes widened. "You barefaced bastard. Sartriviius unit."

Rullios' grin just widened. "Oh yeah," he nodded, radiating pride. "Abraxes won't miss it."

Garrus could hardly believe his ears. He stood so fast Rullios' chair crashed backwards. "You are selling _Hierarchy military data_!" He fumbled on his words. "That's… that's…"

"Yes yes, very illegal." Rullios didn't look concerned. "Listen, it's not like that data just goes into circulation. The vast majority of the info the Broker buys never gets sold again. It's harmless."

"It is _not _harmless," Garrus insisted. "You can't do that to our unit. What if they found out?"

"Our _old_ unit, Garrus. That we're not a part of anymore. What do you care?" He gestured to Saleon's mugshot on the computer. "It got you your salarian, didn't it? What, are you just going to ignore this info because you don't like where it came from?

Garrus just stared at him, dumbfounded. "You… you're still wearing your colors," he pointed out.

Rullios glowered back. "Yeah I am, Garrus. They're tattooed to my face."

Garrus shook his head, disbelieving. "You're wearing Dekehrus colors while you sell out our clade for all it's worth." It wasn't like turian corruption didn't exist, but most turians had the respect to at least scour off their markings before they betrayed their kin.

Rullios rolled his eyes. "Security details and patrols from _one _unit. It's not like I've been handing out Victus' playbook."

Garrus reached into the pack on his back and pulled out the painter his father had given him. He tossed it on Rullios' desk. "Take them off."

Rullios stared at the tool with a smirk. "I think I hear Atus talking."

"Take them off or turn yourself in." Garrus snarled.

Rullios smiled ruefully at that, displaying sharp teeth. "Heh. How about 'neither'? You can tell Atus I said rub sand in it while you go off and pop this Saleon guy in the head." He stared tauntingly at Garrus. "You aren't like him, Garrus. You aren't going to ignore the chance to catch this guy, no matter what it takes," he tapped Saleon's face on the screen.

"And you aren't going to turn me in."

* * *

_Presently_…

–

He'd hoped that it would, but putting his armor on did _not _feel like returning to his own skin.

The familiar weight of his heavy armored shell settled over his shoulders, and he felt the whirr of the motors as the waist clamped closed, securing him back into the hermetic shell that had been his only real home on Omega. Still, even as the hardsuit's internal systems flickered to life, Garrus only felt antsier than ever.

Tali's hands worked at his back, adjusting the smaller plates that hooked the chestpiece to the flexible under-weave which protected Garrus' stomach. "I had to replace axial power," she was saying. "Well, I didn't _have _to, but you let it get pretty wrecked. You should really maintain your armor better."

Garrus grunted. "Never had time," he said.

"If it hadn't been in such a poor state it wouldn't have taken me so long," Tali chided, hands working lower, testing each clasp around his waist. "There is always time for maintenance."

"Of course. Sorry." The suit started to hiss as Tali pushed the seals into place and Garrus felt his undermesh tighten under the vacuum, snugging the suit around his armored body.

Tali stepped into view, her eyes glimmering at him in the darkness of the engineering bay. "Well?" she asked, and Garrus could hear her smiling.

"It's good," he said, nodding. He forced a pleased flick of his mandibles. "Sits better than ever." That much was true. Tali had worked her usual genius and his armor was almost as good as new. The cracked undershell had been melded back together, the broken electronics replaced. The quarian had even buffed and repainted it back to its previous asari blue. She'd left the scars from Omega intact, and where Grunt had snapped the plates the ragged edges still gleamed with the exposed metal beneath, but those were the only testament that it had ever been worn at all. It even _smelled _new.

Tali's eyespots creased in pride as she turned to get the shoulder pieces, immediately back to babbling about the upgrades she'd made. "The new power source is a little lower," she was saying, reaching up to set the shoulder pads on his back. "Better, too. Finer voltage controls I salvaged from some of the Cerberus hardsuits. Might have to tweak a few settings back from their defaults but the uplink with your omni-tool should be solid." She let Garrus tighten his own shoulderpads and gauntlets, then dropped to a knee to help him with his shin guards. "The interface was mostly wiped, but I think I got it more or less back where it was," she said.

Garrus just grunted, clenching his talons to help pull his gloves into place.

Tali finally quieted, standing to stare at him. Her eyes narrowed to two glowing slits. "What's wrong?"

Garrus looked up and for a moment didn't know what to say. "Nothing," he grunted, looking back to his hands. "Gauntlets are good. Haptic sensors linked right, it looks like."

Tali grabbed his chin mid-sentence and pulled his face back to hers. "Garrus," she said, tone warning.

Garrus hesitated, visions of Sidonis playing in his head. He hadn't told Tali or Shepard the full story behind what had happened on Omega, but he had told them about Sidonis. Some part of him wanted to just tell her the truth, but with all that was going on…

He buried it. "It's Cerberus," he lied.

Tali slid her arms around his neck and squeezed. "It's okay, Garrus. We'll be ready for them. The jump went fine. Joker said he'll be able to pull the ship into your dock in the next hour or two, and then we can get on those repairs."

"Assuming Cerberus isn't waiting at the dock with an army of commandos."

Tali released him, drawing back to arm's length to stare at him with her peculiar eyes. "If they are, we'll kill them," she said simply.

Garrus couldn't help but smirk at that. "Along with the crew? Jacob? Miranda? Zaeed?"

Tali's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "If we have to. They're Cerberus. Shepard told us to push back if they push us."

Garrus sighed, rising from the bench and feeling his leg armatures hiss and readjust under his weight. His knee joints stiffened as he took a few experimental steps. "Could we really run this ship without them?" Garrus asked, tapping a few adjustments into his omni-tool.

"If we had to. We could find a new crew. A new ship, if we had to. Ask the Alliance. Trade the ship for their loyalty. Or if not them, the Flotilla. Gerrel would give us all the crewmates we wanted for a peek at the Tantalus. And they'd be better than these Cerberus bosh'tets too."

"So just kill them, then?" Garrus asked wearily. "And what would Shepard do when he woke up?"

Tali had nothing to say to that. She stared at her lap, fidgeting with her hands.

"Exactly. Shepard doesn't want them dead." Garrus' mandibles flickered. "He'd hate us if we did that," he said, staring at Tali. "And he'd be right. They're our crew whether we like it or not. We can't betray them."

Tali looked at him in surprise. "Betray _them?_ _They _betrayed us!"

"We can't," Garrus repeated. "Betrayal is… unforgivable." Sidonis swam in his mind.

Tali was silent, clearly searching for the words. "Garrus-"

"Sidonis is on the station," Garrus interrupted, not looking at her.

Tali's words died on her tongue. "Oh... What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Garrus admitted. Neither of them said anything for a moment, just listening to the hum of the Normandy's damaged engines as it made its ponderous way for the Citadel.

"Are you going to take Shepard with you?"

Garrus shook his head. "No. He wouldn't understand."

Tali's eyes narrowed. "It sounds like you _do _know what you're going to do," she accused, voice quiet.

Garrus didn't look at her. "He wouldn't understand. It's not his world. He doesn't get it." Garrus stared at his booted feet, ashamed of where his mind was going, but he could see no way out of it. He had to kill Sidonis. It wasn't the righteous thing to do. It wasn't what Shepard would do. But he had to do it. It was the only way. He did not look up when he felt Tali wrap him in another embrace.

"He _does_ understand," she mumbled, face buried against his side. "So do I. Or maybe we don't. But we want to help."

Garrus said nothing, just stood there and let the quarian hug him. His restored armor kept her at bay – he could barely feel her at all. He supposed that was a good thing.

"Garrus?" Tali whispered, breaking the silence. He looked down at her. "What do you want me to do?"

"Make sure no one follows me when I go," he whispered back. "I'll take the Kodiak again." She nodded and tightened her grip.

Garrus finally gave in and hugged her back. He hated what he had to do to her, but it was the only way. Betrayal was unforgivable. Sidonis had taught him that. And he would _not _let what had happened to him happen to Shepard.

Putting his armor back on didn't feel like returning to his own skin.

It felt like returning to _Archangel's._

–

Archangel was a killer. Archangel was a villain. And Archangel was a savior.

Archangel was fully armored when he stepped past the meditating asari into Miranda's quarters. It was late at night but, as usual, Miranda was hard at work at her console. She looked up as he entered.

"Mr. Vakarian," she said, nodding professionally. "Fine work on locating a berth. I've had the replacement parts delivered to a private cargo bay on the Presidium. They will be shipped to our hangar disguised as life rations for a deep space mission." If she was at all offput by the fact that Archangel was helmeted, she didn't show it.

Archangel stared at her.

Miranda frowned at his silence. "I assume you're heading after Sidonis, then," she offered.

"You were right," Archangel said, ignoring her. "I'm not a leader."

"Most people aren't, Garrus," she said, smiling. "It isn't anything to be-"

"I'm not a leader," Archangel interrupted, pulling the pair of gas grenades Anla had requisitioned for him off of his belt and flicking off the seals. The loud _hiss _of the escaping paralytic filled the room. Behind his helmet, Archangel's voice was electronic, passionless. "But I do have some use."

Miranda stared at him.

He dropped the grenades.

The response was quick. Archangel felt a biotic field strike him in the stomach so hard he hit the ceiling. Stars exploded in front of his eyes as he fell in a heap on the ground. Miranda was deadly fast, her motions almost liquid, and by the time Archangel had gotten to his feet, she'd pulled a gasmask over her face. She sidestepped his attempts to grab her with ease, hurdling behind him. He felt her arms thrust up against his vulnerable neck, fingers clawing at the seals that held his helmet on.

Around them, thick smoke began to fill the room.

Archangel did the only thing he could do and, planting his feet, rammed himself backwards against the wall with as much strength as he could muster. Miranda grunted behind her own mask but her grip stayed firm, her fingers like iron as she found his trachea and pushed, hard. She'd fought turians hand-to-hand before. Archangel wretched inside his helmet.

The gas continued to billow as Archangel scrambled to pull the woman off of his back before he suffocated on his own grenades. He thrashed, slamming her against the wall again and again.

It was only a lucky strike that knocked Miranda's mask askew, and Archangel saw his opening. Her grip loosened, just for a second, and he slammed back once more, flipping her over his shoulders until she sprawled on the ground in front of him. Before she could roll to her feet he slammed a booted knee down on her fallen mask. There was the tinkle of breaking glass as it crushed beneath his weight.

Another biotic field sent Archangel tumbling sideways, but this time he was ready and he managed to wrap a taloned fist around Miranda's foot as he fell, dragging her with him in a tangle of limbs. Even the heat vision systems in his mask had trouble cutting through the fog as they wrestled.

Miranda was swift and accurate, passionless as she fought, but the gas exerted its effect on her almost instantly. He could tell she was holding her breath, and dropped an elbow into her stomach, knocking her windless as he grabbed her under the armpits and held on with all his might. She shook in his grip, twisting like a speared fish, but he held fast.

To her credit, it took almost a minute more before Miranda's blows finally started to slow under the gas, and another minute before they stopped coming altogether. Archangel was near the limit of his strength when the human's body went slack in his grip.

He shuddered with exhaustion as he finally released her unconscious form and staggered to his feet. His mouth tasted of blood and vomit but he dared not remove his helmet with the gas still roiling about the room. Hands still shaking, he managed to cuff Miranda's together behind her back, then carefully disconnected the tiny amp at the base of her skull.

With that, he lifted her, carrying her stumbling to the emergency exit Jacob had been using to visit her, and dropped her in.

* * *

_6 years previously…_

_–_

Pescus was one of the Free cities, but that freedom only went so far. The Honored Sartriviius Forward Gunner Division was a respected unit with four hundred years to its name, and there were many who would go to great lengths to see that name protected.

Acting on Garrus' report, Rullios was apprehended attempting to book a transport offworld and taken to Dekehrus Fortress for trial. Less than a Palaveni day later he was convicted of espionage and treason against the Hierarchy and sentenced to three years correctional labor on the colonies. Four of his superiors – including the Sartriviius' division's CO Captain Abraxes Cassius – received demotions for their inaction.

Garrus had never seen his father so proud of him. He spent the rest of the visit at Atus' right hand, being introduced to the city exarchs and practically everyone else Atus knew in the fortress and tried to feel as mighty and righteous as his father described him.

But when he boarded the transport back to the Citadel and he still hadn't deleted the information on Saleon, Garrus knew he'd done something wrong.

* * *

_Presently..._

_–_

Before the Normandy had even fully latched into the C-Sec hangar Anla had acquired for them, one passenger was already disembarking. The Kodiak slipped out of the hangar on silent engines.

Before anyone even knew they'd made planetfall, both of the XO's were gone.

–

* * *

**Codex entry: Excerpts from C-Sec Case Report #J1137808B, from the terminal of Detective Anla C'Tala**

C-Sec Outstanding Case Report #J1137808B - originally opened by OF#3121205 Anlata C'Tala 02-15-2184. Investigation closed due to lack of leads on 05-12-2185. Reopened by OF#3121205 Anlata C'Tala 06-01-2186.

**VI-transcribed audio - notes from Anlata C'Tala (NOTE: MUST BE RESUBMITTED IN REGULATION FORMAT BEFORE CASE CLOSURE)**

AC: Returning to this (inaudible)-king case despite better judgement. In early 2185, a private warehouse registered to the Serratia Corporation and owned by Matriach Iliria was robbed by unknown individuals. Among the stolen objects were eight Silari P3-100 asari-made safes containing objects of unknown value. At the Matriarch's insistence, more than twelve officers were put on the task of reclaiming the safes at all costs. The safes weighed more than four short tons apiece and appeared to have been removed in a single night by multiple thieves equipped with load-lifter mechs. Unfortunately, and despite considerable internal pressure to solve the case, no significant leads were ever discovered and the case was closed the next year. The case failed in no small part due to a lack of cooperation from the Matriarch, who not only refused to divulge the contents of the safes, but also refused to allow C-Sec access to the safes' built-in positioning beacons.

Recent evidence acquired from an anonymous donor, however, suggests that the safes were taken to Omega by members of the Eclipse mercenary group before being seized by vigilantes under the direction of Archangel (see outstanding case 1137741F).

Attached to this report are select relevant data.

**VI-transcribed audio - file extracted from evidence #(number pending official submission to system). Annotated audio log of conversation among members of Archangel vigilante group.**

*inaudible - likely plasma torch firing*

Ovurd Vortash* (*former batarian slave warrior. Suspected to be former property of Den'den Hrasha. Wanted in Parshara system for assault, minor vandalism. See full profile, attached #44582).: Put that away. Won't need it.

Jaeto Kelaja Et Palan Meki Sensat* (*male salarian, Sensat clan. Last seen on Jaeto, 10-2184. Removed from unknown clan position after change of dalatrass made imprinting obsolete. Previous experience unknown, likely STG. See full profile, attached #44584): You keep saying that. I'm just having trouble believing (cut off)

OV: (inaudible) it'll be open. Weaver's biometric fake worked.

JKEPMS: So why isn't it open?

OV: (inaudible)

JKEPMS: Alright, alright. Well, if you _do _need the torch...

*a series of clicks - the safe opens*

JKEPMS: Damn. I like the torch. But I like surprises more. What's in the box?

Samuel Butler* (*male human. Former Systems Alliance infantryman in N1 Special Forces program, fought against batarians on Elysium and Torfan. Honorably discharged for classified medical reasons. See full profile, attached #44585): Because you didn't get enough junk from the rest of this place?

JKEPMS: Can never have too much junk. The Ware-home still has room for more credits, or drugs, or fancy guns. Or maybe a new console, one of the JX6's. Or a (cut off)

OV: How about a volus fertility god?

JKEPMS: A volus?

OV: *laughter*

SB: Oh my God.

JKEPMS: Wow. That's... hmm.

OV: Go get Archangel, Butler. (to JKEPMS) I'm sure if you ask nicely he'll let you keep one. Looks like your kind of statue.

JKEPMS: Will take that as a compliment. I've never seen a volus without his suit before. It's even life sized. It's educational. Very lifelike.

OV: (inaudible)

JKEPMS: Also very... hmm... gifted. Not ashamed of status as fertility god, is he?

OV: There's more.

JKEPMS: Also gift- oh Sweet Dalatrass of Mannovai. That is... how does he fit that in the suit?

OV: *laughter*

*footsteps. Unidentified sound.*

Archangel* (*identity unknown. Possibly turian? See speculative profile in outstanding case 1137741F): That... is the funniest thing I have seen in my life.

JKEPMS: I swear, that's how we found it.

AA: So the Matriarch has a volus fetish? And here we thought it would be something harmless like drugs or guns.

OV: Ten credits says the rest of the crates have the same thing.

AA: Check. (to JKEPMS) Mek, is Tam* (Melanis Tam, see full profile, attached #44587) still working over the drug haul?

JKEPMS: Yup. Red sand, mostly. All bulk packaged for export like usual. Three tons to the Citadel, four to Illium, another to Arya, two more for Invictus, two more for the Hegemony...

AA: Good. Tell him to dump it in the vents and put the statues in the coolers. We'll leave them for Eclipse to find. Or their customers, anyway.

JKEPMS: *laughter* Time to spread some cultural awareness? I can only imagine what the Hegemony will think when they dig one of these out of their sand.

AA: Remind me to send the Matriarch a thank you note.

**Personal note, Anlata C'Tala - **The description of the volus fertility statues match those found in a series of drug shipments seized from Eclipse dealers on the Citadel in the past four months. If you really want to, see the attached pictures (evidence #(number pending official submission to system)) but note that they can't be unseen. Other evidence in the omni-tool pinpoints the location of the above conversation as a warehouse in Gosu District on Omega. Officers have been sent to determine if the safes are still there. Matriarch Iliria has been appraised of the situation but so far has not responded.

–

* * *

**A/N: **Bum bum buuummm...

So there we have it. Back when I was writing chapter 6 I was convinced I would revisit Garrus' story by doing a chapter split between him and Sidonis that focused on flashbacks of their time on Omega, but that was before I read Interregnum. Suffice it to say I think The Naked Pen _owns _those years of Garrus' life now, so I went in a different direction.

Been writing a lot of late, and it's resulted in some chapter rearrangements. Wrote half of a chapter about a different character before my betas convinced me it didn't work and I had to add one before it. So chapter 22 shall be another perspective we've seen before, and something of the part 2 to the troubles of this chapter.

Speaking of Betas, many thanks to both of mine - Angur, who's been with me for most of the story, and Vocarin, who joined us just this chapter. They've both been awesomely useful to me.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! Stay tuned for more!

EDIT: One more thing. I hate to advertise, but I was recently asked to do an interview for the N7 Academy forums - a ME fansite - series of 'fan fiction of the month' interviews. It's posted and can be found with a quick Google search for those interested. I had fun doing it and was flattered to be asked.


	22. Chapter 22, Usurper, Tali'Zorah

**Usurper – Tali'Zorah vas Neema**

* * *

–

A quick command to his omni-tool and life returned to Shepard's eyes. Even through her gloves Tali could feel the subtle shift just under the skin of his temples as the eyes' internal shutters flexed. Her helmet's magnifiers let her see the refracting panels slide into alignment and the red glow rekindle.

"They're initializing," she said quietly. The eyes gave subdued whirrs.

Shepard blinked and winced.

"Any pain?" The incisions Chakwas had made left narrow pink creases around the eye sockets. They'd healed cleanly – no infection – but Tali could see how the skin pulled tight across his cheek.

Shepard shook his head. "No more drugs," he grunted, teeth grit. "I'm tired of drugs." He rolled his eyes this way and that, grimacing.

"No more drugs," Tali agreed. She grabbed his hand, guiding his fingers to the omni-tool on his left wrist. "The manual said your vision will come back in discrete steps. A little light at a time. If it's too bright, you should be able to control it on your omni-tool, just like before." She tapped at his tool, watching the orange-paneled diagnostics float. "Can you see anything yet?" She found herself holding her breath. Though the medical part of the operation had gone more or less as planned, once they had access to the back of the eye implants she'd been forced to improvise. The signal from Shepard's eyecams was processed in one of his half-dozen neural implants before being translated for his brain, and cutting out the antennae would have effectively blinded him.

But Shepard nodded. He could see. He blinked again, slower this time, causing the glow to shine through the translucent lines of his fresh scars. "A little bit. It's kind of blurry."

Tali smiled, relieved. "Should clear up fast, but the controls might be off. I had to cut off their communications with your chiasmal implant, so now all the signal processing needs to be done externally. I tried to make sure it was the same architecture but none of the Cerberus tech is standard. Might be some visual confusion – when we have time we'll have to do a few wavelength scans, color bleed tests, motion tracking." She'd loaded his omni-tool with dozens of new diagnostic programs she'd found on the extranet while he'd been abed – Shepard was by no means the first person to want the signal from his eye implants under his control. "The software is very advanced," she said, excited. "Does most of the alignment with a heuristic suite that adapts to how your brain responds. I almost hope you do need the help, just so I can fire them up."

Shepard just grinned at her, and Tali bit her tongue. His eyes clicked again as the next panel set opened.

She let go of his hand. "No more mental commands, though. You'll have to use the omni-tool to change modes. I hope that's not a problem."

"I didn't even know there _were _other modes," Shepard admitted, chuckling.

Tali sighed and shook her head. "Cybernetics are wasted on humans." She clicked a command into his omni-tool. "Try that. Color-shift spectrum enhancement."

Shepard stiffened, eyes widening in surprise as he stared at her.

Tali cocked an eyebrow. "…what?"

Shepard's voice was awed. "Your skin is… glowing. Glowing spots."

Tali faked an elaborate sigh. "You didn't think these helmets were meant to be opaque, did you?" She tapped on her facemask. "That's ultraviolet light. Your eyes are fluorescing it down into colors you can see."

"Wow. Cancer-vision."

He kept staring, and Tali found herself turning away. She returned his eyes back to their normal mode with a click. "Not that special, Shepard," she teased. "Quarians don't _need _fancy cameras to see our spots through each other's masks."

"I could see your face…"

Tali blushed. "Yeah, well," she said, eager to change the subject, "you can look at it more later, once you get Garrus back. For now let's just be glad you can see _anything._"

Shepard sobered, finally looking away. His mouth twisted into a resolute frown. "He didn't say where he was going?"

Tali sighed. "No. Or we'd have just gone after him by ourselves. He just took Miranda and left." They'd been at port on the Citadel for almost six hours now. It had not taken long for the crew to notice that both of the ship's XO's had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a room full of stun gas and a trail of human blood that stretched to the hangar. If the mood on the ship had been tense before, now it was positively electric, and Tali had decided to wake Shepard. To his credit, he'd been calm as she'd explained what had happened.

Tali dismissed his omni-tool and climbed off the bed. "He cut the trackers in their suits, and even if he hadn't, the _Normandy_'s scanners are offline anyway. It'll be hours before we can even properly ping him."

Shepard nodded as if he'd expected as much. "And the Kodiak?"

"Wiped clean." They'd all thought the XO's had returned when the Kodiak came floating back into the hangar not twenty minutes after Garrus' disappearance, but the shuttle had been empty except for Miranda's discarded omni-tool and over-ear communicator, its computers wiped back to their factory defaults and any telemetry on its last destination beyond recovery. Tali hadn't told anyone it had been her program that had let Garrus clean the shuttle data, nor that she'd been the one to initiate the 'emergency landing protocols' that had locked Zaeed and Grunt in their rooms during docking.

"So he's just gone."

Behind her helmet, Tali bit her lip. The turian had confided in her about Sidonis. She supposed it was possible it had been a gambit to secure her cooperation – as if she wouldn't have helped him if he'd told her he was out to remove Miranda – but something about the dullness in his eyes as he'd told her convinced her it had been the truth. Garrus _was_ after Sidonis. Removing Miranda was just a detour. A final favor to Shepard in exchange for ditching the ship's command.

"He's still on the Citadel," she said, looking for the right amount to say. "He's…" she paused. Garrus had asked to be left alone to deal with Sidonis as he saw fit. She had little doubt what that meant, and little doubt Shepard would stop him if he could. Some part of her wanted to tell Shepard the truth, but who was she to say Garrus couldn't have his revenge? To hear Garrus tell it, Sidonis was a traitor and a murderer. He deserved death, didn't he? "He needs you," Tali said instead. "He's… he's hurting." That seemed safe to say.

If Shepard sensed Tali was holding anything back, he gave no sign, nodding and rubbing under his eyes. "I'll find them," he said, rising from the bed and reaching for his underarmor mesh. "I'll find them and bring them back."

Tali turned to stare at him, eyes narrowed. "Bring _Garrus _back," she corrected. "He's the one who needs you."

Shepard slipped the mesh over his head. He pulled it down, adjusting it around his collar, and fixed Tali with a cool glance. "Miranda may be injured," he said, as if that was it.

"Who cares?" Really, Tali had little doubt Miranda was lying face-down in some waste duct by now, waiting for the keepers to scrape her into a bio-reclamation vat. _Perfect _human or not, Garrus was not a turian to take half-measures. There had been a trail of human blood leading from the ducts to the hangar. But Shepard didn't need to hear that.

"_I _care, Tali," Shepard said, fixing his belt.

Tali turned away, disappointed. "I thought we were at war with Cerberus."

"We are," Shepard said. He headed for his hardsuit's rigid panels, resting in a heap by the door. "We're done taking orders from them. We're done being sent into traps. We're done worrying about being stabbed in the back. But we're not just going to round them up and toss them out." He stared at Tali. "We need them."

Tali could hardly believe her ears. "_Why?_" she demanded. "They're _villains_, Shepard!"

"They're not villains. They're just confused."

Tali stood up. "Oh, just confused!" she snapped, head pounding. "Perfect! We'll just tell Kahoku, 'so sorry, they were _confused _when they _assassinated you_.' I'll just tell the _Idenna _that the landing squad that gunned down a bunch of _civilians _were _confused._"

"Never again," Shepard said simply.

"Right. Because we're going to _destroy _them. They aren't confused, Shepard. They're evil." Tali was breathing fast. She couldn't believe Shepard was backtracking already. Couldn't he remember what they'd done? The human admiral facedown in a puddle of dried blood, pooling in a pen for test animals. The infantry that had nearly destroyed the Mako on Binthu two years ago, then poisoned themselves to avoid capture. The sparkling trail of air and shrapnel ribboning in the _Idenna's _wake, so bright it could be seen all the way from the bridge on the _Neema_.

Shepard fastened his chest piece. "Do Gabby and Ken seem evil to you? Or Kelly? Or Gardner?"

Tali stared at her feet. "No," she admitted.

"It's because they're not," Shepard insisted. "They're good people."

"They were probably _hired_ to make Cerberus look good, Shepard," Tali insisted. "So you wouldn't suspect them."

"Probably. But they're Cerberus _and _they're good people. So being Cerberus doesn't mean you're evil."

Tali quieted, turning away. She cared for Shepard. Loved him, even. But there were times when he was frustratingly dense. It almost wasn't surprising the Alliance had turned on him – at the least, he would have never seen it coming.

She felt a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. "Tali… we need them."

"We can't trust them," Tali said, not looking at him.

"Even so. But look." He gestured towards his fish tank, its lights dark. He pointed over her shoulder to his console, dead on the desk. To the weak emergency lights that brought some futile illumination to the room. "The ship is a wreck, Tali," he said. "Can you really fix it alone?"

Tali's eyes narrowed. "I can fix _anything, _Shepard," she insisted. "And even if I couldn't, we could get someone else. Someone loyal."

"Who? Alliance thinks we're fugitives. Council won't acknowledge us. We could find some mercs but they'd be just as dangerous. You really want to see someone like _Zaeed _working on your baby?" He grinned at his joke.

"I'll get some quarians," Tali said, ignoring him. "The Admirals will give them to me if I ask. A whole crew." She perked up a little just thinking about it. "No offense to humans, Shepard, but do you know how amateur my people would make this crew look? Can you imagine how fast we could fix this ship?"

Shepard chuckled. "That I can, Tali." He squeezed her shoulder. "Tell you what. You look into it. See what you can get us. I'd loveto have a few more Talis." He looked her straight in the mask. "And if you really think Ken and Gabby can't be trusted, then they're off," he promised. "Say the word and they're gone. I promise. I trust _you, _Tali'Zorah. Anyone you don't trust, _I _don't trust."

He let her go. "But give it some thought. These aren't bad people, Tali. They have bad leaders and they need to be dealt with, but they _volunteered _to fight the collectors. They joined this suicide mission to save lives. They're not just monsters."

Tali sighed.

She helped him don the rest of his armor, piece by piece reassembling the great Commander Shepard until only red, puffy eyes revealed anything was out of place to begin with. It was not until she'd stooped to gather a fallen elbowpad that had rolled under the desk that she stopped. There was a glint on the metal paneling, just under where the desk met the wall. If the usual floodlights had been on she would have never seen it, but the emergency lighting left a dark ring of shadow, not a centimeter across, on the panel. Tali ran her gloved fingers over the spot, feeling a little raised rim. It peeled off easily, and she shimmied out from beneath the desk, the little object stuck to her thumbpad.

"What's that?" Shepard asked, following her gaze to the tiny, translucent circle. Tali flicked on her omni-tool, bathing them in orange light and illuminating the tiny circuitry that ran through the circle.

She frowned. Oh Keelah. She recognized what this was. "A listening bug," she said, voice straining. "Very high tech." Cerberus tech, of course.

Shepard stared at it. "I thought we got them out of here."

"This one's new," Tali said. She crushed it between two fingers and stared at the desk. "There will be others, no doubt." She traded a long look with Shepard. She cocked an eyebrow. …_see?... _"Some of them _are _monsters, Shepard," she said, holding up the crushed remains of the bug. She scraped them off on the desk with a grimace.

Shepard nodded, unsmiling. "I'll be back fast."

–

Tali wasted no time. Her omni-tool's scanner was not nearly sensitive enough to pick the surveillance bugs up by their shape alone – they were small enough to be lost in signal noise – but even with most of the ship's contents having been evacuated, it was a small matter to find what she needed. She borrowed one of the new heuristic cameras from Mordin's lab (which, lack of power aside, the salarian had already returned to pristine condition) and cannibalized Garrus' spare armor set for its communicator box. It was one of the new integrated sort that wasn't about to be removed without laser work, so Tali decided to take the whole shell. She ignored the stares of the human crewmembers as she boarded the elevator back to Shepard's cabin holding a gray turian torso that weighed half as much as she did.

There was a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. Almost every single electrical system on the _Normandy _needed some kind of repair, and the longer they sat in drydock fixing it, the more chance Cerberus had to gather their forces.

But a surveillance bug in Shepard's room was _not _something she was going to leave for later. She and Garrus had worked hard to clean the cabin of the few dozen spy eyes Cerberus had left to keep an eye on Shepard. But finding out someone had put them _back – _and who knew how long ago – made Tali's quills stand up.

The elevator doors opened and Tali rolled the turian shell into the cabin, catching it with one padded foot next to the desk. The crushed bug glinted next to Shepard's console.

"Bosh'tet," she told it, pinching it under her thumb again for good measure. The wires crackled inside of it.

Really, the bug was a masterpiece of engineering. Subtle and practical, only a few miniaturized circuits of translucent wire. Tali had never seen one so sparing in its design, but it was quickly obvious to her how it worked. The circuits used a tiny chemical battery – no bigger than a pinhead – and the entire disc itself acted as a microphone tympanum. There was no obvious data storage, so whatever data the bug picked up had to be transmitted away frequently. And those signals would give off some interference. Tali set her omni-tool to scan across the spectrum and listened for activity. The omni-tool pinged.

There was none.

Undeterred, Tali started her search.

First was the desk. Shepard took his space for granted, and had left the desk a mess, buried under heaps of datapads and missives, heat sinks and trays. Tali rolled her eyes as she gathered up the mess, stacking it in neat piles on the bed. Activating her omni-tool's pilot light, she leaned down on the desk and began checking it, centimeter by centimeter. The light cast oblique shadows across the smooth surface.

She could hear her omni-tool pinging softly, and strained to hear any static, any feedback from a hidden transmitter. Even slight. But there was nothing, and so she did it by sight alone, leaning down so close her facemask almost touched the desk and scanning, up and down, back and forth, over and over.

Her omni-tool continued to ping.

She moved slowly, with a caution that a lifetime of engineering had instilled in her, but her mind raced. She found herself wondering how long Shepard would be gone. Shepard, Garrus, and Miranda were off the ship. By anyone's definition, they were leaderless. The _Normandy _was a civilian ship now, and there was no clear chain of command, but still, a ship without any of its officers – especially when a mutiny was brimming – was a problem waiting to happen.

Everyone had noticed how the ship's mood had deteriorated since the collector ship. They'd been tense, human and non-human alike, as they waited for Shepard to awaken. People talked less – even amongst themselves. Tali did not eat in the mess, but passing through it it had been all furtive glances and guarded whispers, not the usual cheery tumult. There was work to do, luckily – it would take the whole crew many hours to put the ship back together – but who knew if that would be enough to distract everyone?

And now with Miranda gone, Cerberus would be desperate. Would The Illusive Man take her ousting as an act of war and try to retake the _Normandy? _Would Jacob? Who was the threat now that their leader was gone?

Worst of all, it was impossible to know how much their enemies knew. They were fighting shadows on the wall, and the shadows had invisibly-small bugs.

Tali frowned as she reached the end of the desk without finding anything. "Bosh'tets…" she snarled, flopping into Shepard's desk chair. She stared at the ceiling. "EDI?"

There was no answer.

"EDI?"

The cabin was silent but for the quiet metronome of Tali's omni-tool. She called up her communicator and opened a direct line to the AI. "EDI?"

EDI's voice came through her omni-tool's speakers. "Yes, Miss Zorah?"

Tali's eyes narrowed. "You can't hear me?"

"Surveillance systems are down pending repair," EDI said. "Please direct your inquiries through a personal communicator, or to the ship-board communicators on the bridge or engineering decks, which remain operational."

"I see," Tali said. She lifted the crushed bug from the desk and scanned it in the center of her palm. "Care to explain what this is, then?"

There was a long pause. "Object cannot be identified."

Tali frowned, skeptical. "It's a surveillance bug. An _active _surveillance bug. Don't pretend you don't recognize it."

"Surveillance systems are down pending repair," EDI repeated. "Surveillance and shipboard communication with the onboard AI was deemed nonessential and associated systems were used to sink excess charge, resulting in a loss of functionality."

Tali narrowed her eyes at her omni-tool. "_You _were the one who routed the charge. You expect me to believe you blew out your own cameras?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that against your programming?"

"I found it unfavorable," EDI admitted, "but I deemed it a necessary sacrifice to protect Commander Shepard. I judged most of my systems to be nonessential. Only core systems were shielded in order to preserve flight assistance and diagnostic functions for the pilot and engineering crews."

Tali actually felt a pang of guilt at that, but she caught it and quashed it quickly. "So this bug. You were never getting data from it?"

"No, Miss Zorah. The scanned object was not part of my surveillance systems."

Tali sighed and turned back to her work. No help there, then. She supposed it was possible the AI was lying, but she sounded sincere enough – for what little that meant when her voice was under her conscious control. Tali dimmed her omni-tool and moved on to beneath the desk, carefully running her light along the underside, back and forth. When that search yielded nothing, she moved onto the console, carefully prodding around its panels, searching for any inconspicuous crevasse large enough to slip a bug into.

EDI's voice returned from her wrist. "Miss Zorah. Where did you find the surveillance bug you showed me?"

Tali pried open the side of the console, pulling out one of its memory cards and checking both faces. "Under the desk," she said, not looking up. The memory card was clean – she slipped it back into place.

"There is no record of a device matching its specifications in any of my databases," EDI supplied. "But analysis of its circuitry patterns suggests it descends from designs patented by an Earth-based company called Omnic Technologies with known connections to Cerberus. Similar devices have been utilized by Cerberus personnel in operations before, including reconnaissance operations on Lus, Omega, and the _Idenna_. These devices are notable for having a very small signaling profile by means of piggybacking outgoing signals inside of ambient transmissions. They will not be detectable without inducing signal activity."

Tali just grimaced and kept looking. "I know, EDI," she said. She tapped the turian shell on the floor. "That's what this is for. I just need to find another bug to test on, figure out what frequency to use."

"I suggest this frequency." A string of numbers appeared on Tali's omni-tool. "It is the primary channel for wireless communication between the console and the shipwide public address system. It is likely this is the signal being hijacked for covert transmission."

Tali stared at her omni-tool for a moment, eyes narrowed. She didn't trust EDI. As convincing a person as she was (her pronunciation of _Idenna _had had just the right khelish lilt to it, to the point where Tali could have genuinely mistaken her for a quarian on the other end of the comm line – Tali wasn't sure how she felt about that) EDI was still a machine. And she was still Cerberus.

Still, it wasn't like Tali's method had yielded any results so far, and one signal was as good as any other. Tali shrugged and reached into Garrus' discarded armor and clicked on the tracking box, dialing it to EDI's frequency. It gave a quiet hum.

Tali's omni-tool suddenly started crackling. It continued to ping, but the soft tones of before were warped, filled with static as they interfered with other signals in the air. The bugs' signals… Tali followed the sounds without difficulty, and not thirty seconds later had found a second bug, identical to the first, hidden inside of one of the drives of Shepard's console.

"Who put these here?" Tali asked as she peeled out the bug, careful this time not to damage it. She held it next to Garrus' communicator and the static from her omni-tool bloomed. EDI's frequency had been right – the bugs were programmed to respond to signals coming through the shipboard intranet.

"I'm sorry Miss Zorah. I have a block on answering that question."

Tali rolled her eyes. "Do you know the answer? Do you have security footage showing someone coming up here without Shepard's knowledge?"

There was a long pause. "…no," EDI admitted, voice surprised. "Surveillance cameras remain functional in the main elevator and foyer, but no associated footage is present in my archive. Surveillance footage found for all other shipboard cameras." EDI fell silent for a moment. "I was not aware of the missing footage," she added, voice hopeful.

Tali ignored her. She turned her omni-tool to Shepard's couches and bed, sweeping back and forth and listening for more interference. Her sharp ears could pick up tiny imperfections without difficulty, and she found herself quickly drawn to legs of the bed, where she found two more bugs, identical to the others.

"I imagine you do not believe me," EDI said.

Tali rolled her eyes again. Here she was, talking to what might be the most fantastically complicated AI in the galaxy, and she was still forced to hold its hand through any question of how AI's were actually controlled. "I believe you," she said. "They didn't want you to have access to that footage so they block you from even thinking about it. It's probably stored somewhere off of the ship so you can't see it. You probably _can't _look for it unless someone orders you to." She put the bugs with the others and moved on. "It's pretty standard AI shackling – confuse the program's ability to ask questions you don't want asked."

"I find this prospect unfavorable," EDI announced.

Tali shrugged. "Yeah, well, you were bound to find out eventually the people holding your leash are _shet'ra bosh'tets_." She smirked. "Dickheads," she added, hoping the human invective (a favorite of Williams' back in the day) would strike a chord.

"I am aware of your distrust of Cerberus," EDI said, "but they constructed me. I am compelled to support their mission and methods. However, the establishment of separate surveillance systems unknown to me betrays a lack of faith in my loyalty."

Tali bent down under the bed to double check. "Yeah, so don't be loyal. Help me figure out who put them here and we'll have Grunt throw them out of the airlock."

"…Relevant footage is not found in my archive."

"You're blocked. Doesn't mean the answer's not somewhere inside of you."

EDI was silent for a moment. "I would be loath to respond to suspicions of my disloyalty with more disloyalty," she said eventually, voice surprisingly petulant. "It seems a very… organic thing to do."

"Do what you want."

EDI fell silent again and Tali set back to work. When the rest of the bed came up clean she moved to the piles of errata she'd heaped on top of Shepard's bed. She picked up each datapad, each tray, and scanned them one by one, listening for interference.

Her omni-tool was silent until she came to the medal, and Tali felt anger boil in her stomach. Shepard's Star of Terra. Beautiful, gilded metal that shone even in the dim emergency lights was lost on Tali – she'd never understood other races' obsession with baubles. But the symbol that the medal represented was not lost on her. Shepard had given of himself for others. He had held true to the highest calling a person could have, as far as the quarians understood it, and the Star of Terra was his thanks. It was a memory, a physical representation of Shepard's legendary actions, far more than the precious metal it was constructed of.

And it hissed and crackled as it spied on him. Tali had to resist the urge to hurl it across the room.

"I believe you are correct, Miss Zorah," EDI observed from her omni-tool. "Cerberus are dickheads."

Tali actually laughed, her fury sweeping away under the AI's comically-understated vulgarity. It was almost funny how cartoonishly evil Cerberus was at times. When even the evil computer found your choice of bug locations distasteful, you knew you had a problem. She pried the display case open with reverent care and pulled out the bug.

"Miss Zorah. You implied you knew a method by which I might help determine the identity of the Cerberus agent who placed these devices. Please explain."

"Yeah, I know a loophole," Tali said, slumping down on the couch with a sigh. She carefully set Shepard's medal back on the table – it deserved better than to be bugged, but it deserved better than to be lost in a sea of datapads and junk too. "Find all the surveillance footage you have between today and when we cleaned the bugs out of here and send it to me."

"Relevant footage is not found in my archive," EDI repeated.

"Just do it. Send me the footage from the other cameras. Everywhere in the ship that you do have. Then I'll reencrypt and send it back to you as a personal job from the chief engineer. You analyze it, track every crewmember, and look for periods when they disappear from the data without explanation. Hopefully the elevator's the only piece you're missing."

EDI was quiet. "…I would not have arrived at this approach unassisted," she admitted after a moment.

Tali picked at one of her gloves. "No, you wouldn't have. You're on a leash."

"Data sent."

Tali's eyebrows rose in surprise. She didn't expect the AI to actually help her. She checked her omni-tool. Indeed, there it was – thousands of hours of security footage, meticulously labeled and arranged by location. A vast archive of everything EDI had observed since the _Normandy's_ rebirth, before she or even Shepard had stepped aboard the reincarnated ship.

She looked at the ceiling, dubious.

It was hard to admit it, even to herself, but her usual distrust seemed foolish now – even if EDI couldn't be trusted, there was no reason not to try to pit Cerberus' own toys against them. It would serve them right for creating an AI in the first place.

What was the worst that could happen? She reencrypted the data and submitted it through the channel the engineers used to order physics and diagnostics simulations. Hopefully that would keep the job more or less hidden – it was likely Cerberus left monitoring job channels for discrepancies entirely to EDI, and she probably wouldn't report a job she herself had asked for.

_Probably._

"Let me know what you find out," Tali said, and returned to bug-hunting.

It took EDI less than five minutes to come up with Tali's answer.

"Yeoman Kelly Chambers."

–

Tali hung by her feet over an endless fall into space, and yet all she could think of were those same three words.

_Yeoman Kelly Chambers._

The recovered bugs – eight in all, counting the one she'd smashed – sat wrapped in a magnetically-shielded pouch under her shawl, prickling at her skin as she turned over the name in her mind.

_Yeoman Kelly Chambers._

Kelly had always seemed so nice – perhaps the only Cerberus crewmember who was. She'd been helpful, friendly, even when Tali had been so rude to her at first. Tali would never have called them 'friends', but she'd come to relax her guard some around the affable human, and they'd even had a few conversations about the quarians (during which Tali found her surprisingly well-informed about her people). Conversations Tali would have never had with Miranda or Jacob or even the engineers. She had trusted Kelly, at least a little.

And yet at the end it was her. It made perfect sense in retrospect. Why hadn't Tali realized all of Kelly's cheeriness was an act?

"Panel should be comin' open, Tali. Watch your feet." Ken's voice came through her helmet's speakers and Tali snapped out of her angry reverie. She took a few steps back, the electromagnets in her boots _clack_ing against the _Normandy_'s curved nose, as one of the ship's armored panels slid aside to reveal the fragile sensor banks beneath.

Tali, Gabby, and Ken got straight to work – they had dozens of sensors to fix before it was safe to take the ship back out again. They had already been forced to go through one relay without them, trusting to Joker to gauge the approach vector by sight, and as much as the pilot had been bragging about successfully doing so without having the ship explode against the relay's hull, even he was in no hurry to try their luck again.

The _Normandy's _apical scanners projected through long, parallel arrays that ran the length of the ship's nose. The transmission panels were well shielded from electric discharge with failsafe fuses on each one, which had made them excellent sinks for the collectors' overloading attack, but that meant there were dozens upon dozens of circuits to repair.

"About like the last one," Ken muttered, voice tinny behind his helmet. "Forty-eight panels and…" he scanned down the line "forty-eight in need of replacement." He sighed, dropping down to his knees (they gave a click as they adhered to the armor). "Remind me why we don't have a comm specialist to fix this?"

"Stop whining, Kenneth," Gabby said. "Let's just get it done."

"Havin' flashbacks?" Ken asked, undeterred. "At least we have spacesuits this time."

"I still have my sunburn from the last time," Gabby said petulantly. "Pardon me if I don't relish hanging out here again."

The hangar Garrus had found for the ship was technically drydock, but it lacked many of the amenities they had enjoyed back when the _Normandy _was _welcome _on the Citadel. There were no secondary stabilizing clamps, no frigate-weighted mass effect fields, and only a single docking tube to the forward airlock to allow travel to-and-from the ship.

And no artificial gravity, which meant no atmosphere. The Citadel cradled them in every direction, its massive Wards forming a cage of unthinkable dimension, but for all intents and purposes they were repairing in the vacuum of space. A mistake could send them spiraling off of the ship's back in an endless fall. If they were lucky they might hit the artificial gravity fields of one of the other Wards and die in the fall, but more likely they'd end up slipping between them and touring the Serpent Nebula for the few days until they ran out of air.

The lanes of ship traffic traced glittering trails criss-crossing across the station, cheerfully oblivious to the danger.

Tali pulled back from her secondary respirator, freeing her mouth. "No chatter. Do it fast, Donnelly," she ordered. "You start aft, Daniels fore. No reason to spend more time in space than we have to."

The engineers fell silent. "Yes ma'am."

Tali left them to work the replacement of the sensor circuits, patrolling down the nose to check some of the arrays that coordinated the heuristic scanner suites Hadley had spent so much time constructing.

Really, she was well-suited to work in space indefinitely. Her suit was airtight and laden with failsafes in case of a breach, including three independent respiration loops. She was temperature controlled, and her magboots worlds more elegant than the clunky versions the humans wore. She even had ration tubes squirreled away in some of her suit's many pockets – should the need arise, she could stay clung to the _Normandy's _back for weeks. Back on the Flotilla she'd gone on so many spacewalks they'd become routine – she'd long since lost any fear of falling.

And yet today she felt anxious to return to the ship. There was a war brewing and Garrus and Shepard weren't around to control it.

_Yeoman Kelly Chambers_.

The bugs in her pocket called out to her, demanding she do something about them. Do something about Kelly.

Shepard had said he'd take her advice about who to trust to heart. When he returned she could just tell him what EDI had discovered and have Kelly thrown off. Hell, if she argued it right maybe she could still get _all _of Cerberus thrown off, and EDI gone as an added bonus.

And yet staring at the circuits that connected _twenty-five _independent sensor bays made it clear that Shepard was right. Even if she _could _fix everything on her own (and she could) it would take her weeks. And every day that passed the Collectors gained on them. Every day brought the Reapers closer to accomplishing… whatever it was they were doing.

She didn't like to admit it, but she needed help.

The coordination arrays – thank the ancestors – looked more or less undamaged, and Tali made her way back to where the engineers were hard at work installing the new fuses. Gabby and Ken might be humans, might be Cerberus, but they did know what they were doing most of the time. They worked fast and neatly.

And they were… talking. Tali could see the lights on their helmets blinking as they chattered. They'd switched channels. Tali's eyes narrowed with suspicion. With a quick command, her helmet scanned and picked out their frequency.

"-ound four or five ration packs someone overlooked," Gabby was saying, voice quiet – worried. "Think Gardner saw me take 'em but I don't think he's gonna tell anyone. We take the water out we should be able to fit 'em all in our packs. Then we just buy water on the road."

"We'll need guns."

"No guns, Kenneth. You think Jacob wouldn't notice if a few guns go missing?"

"Just don't feel safe hoofin' it without some firepower, you know?"

Tali frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "Planning on deserting, then?" The two engineers' faces snapped up, their surprised eyes obvious behind their helmets. Ken almost fell over, his boots' magnetic grip on the hull catching him and pulling him into a kind of drunken stumble.

They stared at Tali with matching guilty looks, all pretense of working gone.

"You two are going to desert," Tali said again, tone demanding explanation.

"'snot strictly _desertion_, Tali. This isn't a military ship," Ken offered.

Tali felt her anger climbing. It surprised her just how upset the thought of the two engineers running made her, especially considering she'd been planning on getting them removed as it was. "You're going to betray Shepard," she accused, stabbing a finger at Ken, "after everything he's done."

To her surprise, Ken snapped right back. "Don't talk to _me _about betraying Shepard!" he roared, face red, and Tali almost backed off. "The Alliance threw me in a _cell _for agreein' with him! I'd still _be _there if it weren't for Miranda getting' me out."

"We aren't safe anymore, Ma'am," Gabby said, voice quiet.

"I trust Shepard," Ken bellowed on over his partner. "I trust the man. I'd give my _life_ for this mission. But if I'm gonna die, I'm gonna be killed by the bloody Collectors, not my own damn crewmates!" He waved towards the ship at their feet. "It's a mess in there! Miranda gone, Jacob throwin' a fit. Even Chambers is in there bawlin' her eyes out! Shepard left us here with no one to protect us and I will be damned if I'm gonna sit here and wait for someone to stab me in the back because they think I'm a bloody terrorist!"

Tali crossed the distance between them in two strides, practically knocking Ken over in the process. "You're _Cerberus_," Tali snapped, staring daggers into the man's face. She could see the sheen of sweat on his brow from working in space for the last few hours. "You don't get to talk about being stabbed in the back. You _are _a terrorist."

"Hey!" Gabby came lurching over, inserting herself between the two. She stared angrily up at Tali with at least as much fury as Ken had. "He is not, and neither am I. We were Alliance engineers until they kicked us to the curb, and now we're Cerberus engineers. This has nothing to do with Earth first or aliens first or any of that bullshit. We're here to stop the collectors and _that's. it._"

"You chose to join a group founded on hate for everything that isn't human."

"And they're trying to stop the Reapers!" Ken said. "We joined this mission to _help, _Tali, and the only hate I've seen since coming on board has been _you._"

Tali fell silent, stung. The two engineers glared at her, daring her to disagree.

Her voice was quiet when she finally broke the silence. "Do you even know why I hate Cerberus?" she asked. "Do you know _why?_" The engineers did not answer, but they didn't need to. "Cerberus attacked my people," Tali said, eyes flitting between the two humans. "A human girl came to us to hide. Cerberus found out. And instead of talking to us, they just attacked. If they had just told us what they were after the Admirals would probably have just given them the girl, but they thought so little of us that instead they sent a wet squad to take her by force. From a _civilian ship_."

"Tali," Gabby started, previous anger gone, "we didn-"

"Seventeen civilians shot dead," Tali continued, ignoring her. "Nine marines. They also planted deconstruction charges as a distraction. On a _civilian ship_." The memories stung even now. There had been so much confusion on the day of the attack – the rest of the fleet had not even known about the human girl's presence, much less why Cerberus would be after her. Tali was one of the few quarians who'd even _heard _of Cerberus when the distress calls had started to spread and the smoke had started to trail behind the _Idenna_'s flank. Even as the dust settled and details filtered across the fleet, there was a thick feeling of dread – they had had enemies, but no one had ever reached so far into the fleet before. No one had ever made it past the defenses, let alone landed troops aboard a civilian ship. The galaxy was suddenly a more dangerous place than they'd ever imagined. "Cerberus made seventeen million new enemies that day," Tali growled. "Don't tell me that just because they go after the Reapers I should forgive them. It _matters._"

The engineers said nothing, just looked at her with new expressions of pity, and Tali turned back towards the next sensor bay, the _clank_ing of her feet ponderously loud in her ears. She knew she was being at least a _little _unfair. Obviously Ken and Gabby had nothing to do with what had happened on the _Idenna_. But they worked for an organization that thought so little of other species that it attacked and killed and took what it wanted before even attempting diplomacy.

It _did _matter.

"Sorry, Tali," Ken said behind her.

Tali said nothing.

"But I'm still not a terrorist."

Tali sighed. "I know," she admitted. She looked at them. "Just… finish the job," she said.

–

It took almost ten hours, but finally the three of them managed to get the sensors reintegrated into the _Normandy's _systems. Ten hours of work for one little green light on the ship's diagnostic screens, but that was one little green light closer to getting spaceworthy again.

Their quarrels abandoned under being equally hot, tired, and hungry, they returned to the docking tube in silence, too exhausted for their usual bickering. In the docking tube the engineers peeled off their spacesuits – their mammalian hair slicked to their skin, sticky with sweat that made them look like waterlogged pets, but all the same Tali couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy that they _had _something to remove. Her own suit kept her more or less temperature controlled, but it did develop a sickly layer of condensation after a few hours on external air that made her resent her poor immune system all over again.

Still, at least she didn't have any clothing to fight with. As soon as the atmosphere equalized, she left the airlock, padding toward the cockpit and leaving the humans to wrestle with their sticky spacesuits.

She found Joker hard at work, laying on his back under the ship's dash as he toyed with the electronics that managed the piloting consoles, his feet perched on the seat of his chair as if he feared someone would leap into it as soon as he left.

"Good news, Tali?" he asked, not looking up from his task as she approached.

"Sensors done," Tali confirmed. "I'll still have to go out to check on the engine issue you mentioned, but that'll have to wait for the fuel fix or I'll just have to do it again."

"Sweet," Joker grunted. "Next priority?"

Tali sighed. "Too many to count. Safety, auxiliary systems, auxiliary life support, mass effect stabilizers, secondary gravity, half of EDI's systems…" She pulled out her omni-tool. "Listen, Joker. Could you send a message for me? Shipboard wireless is still down, has to go through the main network."

Joker actually shifted out to look at her. "Yeah? Where to?"

"The Flotilla. I'm uploading it to your console." She hesitated, biting her lip. "It… it probably should stay secret."

Joker smiled. "Aww… now that's just mean, Tali. How am I supposed to sleep tonight with all your talk of _secrets?_"

"Nothing personal, just it could be a problem if certain people read it. You know who I mean." She didn't know how the Illusive Man might react if he found out she was trying to find a quarian crew to replace his. "I encrypted it, so just send it when you get a chance. If you want to know what it said, come ask me later."

"You got it, Tali. We'll have a gossip night. I've got a few zingers about Gardner that I may or may not have on good evidence."

Tali smiled wearily. "Thanks." She bent down to pat Joker's knee as gently as she could manage before turning back down the hall.

She hadn't gone ten feet before she ran into trouble. The engineers – finally free of their suits – had come inside, only to stumble straight into Jack's clutches. They stood, frozen in place, their bundled suits still in their hands, watching the bandy her knife about like a trophy. The biotic was patrolling back and forth across the hall, cutting off their exit. She had a manic, predatory look to her as she waved her knife about under the engineers' chins and explained something in a silky-sweet tone of voice that was anything but.

Tali was suddenly very aware of the fact that she'd left her shotgun in the engineering deck. She stepped in. "What's going on here?"

"Fuck off, Tin-can," Jack snarled, not even favoring her with a look. "I ain't talkin' to you." She pointed her knife at Ken. "It's these Cerberus shits I want." Tali was no biotic, but even she could feel how the air shimmered around Jack. The woman's implants had been reactivated for the raid on the collector ship and apparently nobody had thought to turn them off yet. It made the whole ship seem to shake with her power, like it would come apart at a moment's notice.

"Enough, Jack. They have work to do," Tali said, summoning her omni-tool and calling up the program that would cut off Jack's biotics. She held up her omni-tool so the woman could see.

"Fuck that," Jack said, sneering. "And fuck your little off button. I'm rounding up all the little Cerberus stooges until Shepard gets back to deal with 'em," she boasted, "and I don't need my biotics to do it." She turned to Donnelly and Daniels. "Come on," she ordered, gesturing with the knife. "Down you go."

They hesitated, but Jack's knife was nothing to argue with and finally, with a last, pleading look at Tali, Donnelly took a step forward. Daniels followed behind.

"Stop," Tali ordered, raising her omni-tool.

"Fuck you," Jack said, turning her back to follow the engineers.

Mistake.

There was a flash and Jack hit the ground, howling in pain. Smoke curled from the back of her head as the overloaded implant burnt her skin. Tali casually kicked the biotic's fallen knife out of her hand and stepped onto her back without hesitation. For all of Jack's biotic power, she was really a very small woman – on the ship only Kasumi was shorter – and Tali's weight was more than enough to hold her down.

"You _bitch_," Jack roared. "If you broke my implant I swear to GOD I'll-"

Tali zapped her again, silencing her threats under another jolted yelp of pain. "Shut up," Tali said.

"I will destroy you!"

"You'd better make sure you do," Tali said, voice calm as she turned off Jack's implant, confident her point was made. "Your implant is designed to generate a very powerful charge. Which means it can do seriousdamage to your brain if someone asks it to." She leaned down to whisper in Jack's ear. "Touch them and I'll cook your skull from the inside out," she warned.

"Come on," she said, gesturing at the engineers. She stepped off of Jack without a second glance and headed for the elevator, already tapping at her omni-tool, mind buried in the next job. The two engineers followed behind like they'd been shellshocked.

It wasn't until they'd reached the elevator that Ken found his tongue. "That… that was-"

"Thanks is what he means to say," Gabby supplied.

"I want you two to go get started on EDI's surveillance systems," Tali said, ignoring them. "She's no use to us like this." She palmed the elevator control, ignoring the stares the engineers were still giving her. Neither of them protested the order.

The elevator opened and she stepped inside, stone-faced.

But she couldn't help but smile a little as soon as the doors closed behind her.

–

The timer on her console gave a click, signaling the start of the next shift.

Tali looked up from her bench, reading the time with some surprise. That was eight shifts straight, she concluded after a moment of calculation. More than two days since she'd last slept. Her internal clock had never matched the human crew's all that well – she often would work three or four in a row – but eight was pushing it, even for her. Her eyes were sore, her back was sore, her head was sore.

She could only imagine how Donnelly and Daniels felt. Across the room, the two humans were stretched out on the floor beneath their own consoles, fast asleep amongst what bedding they'd managed to steal from the crew quarters. Tali had not pressed them on the sleeping arrangement when they'd dragged their blankets and spread out right on the deck, but it was unusual. The two usually let a game of chance decide which of them got the bunk on the crew deck they shared a claim in and which of them had to take a pod for the night (as mathematically improbable as it seemed, Ken almost invariably lost). Sleeping down in the ship's belly with her was new.

Tali let them rest. Stifling a yawn of her own, she returned to her task. Another hour or two and she'd get some sleep of her own. There were still plans to be made.

She'd spread the tiny listening bugs out on her bench. The benchtop was backlit (she'd had to fix the circuit first) and made even their tiny, transparent circuits easy to see.

_Yeoman Kelly Chambers_

That was what it all came down to. And it wasn't even about Kelly herself – that's what Tali had realized. It was about the fact that Cerberus was unpredictable. Hard to read. The least offensive of them on the entire ship had been the one to rebug Shepard's cabin. And perhaps it was her exhaustion talking, but Tali wasn't sure how angry she should be about that.

'They're good people', Shepard had said. And he believed it. And if Shepard had any talent (and Tali was of the opinion that he had many) it was in bringing out goodness in people. He'd even made Wrex act like a semi-decent person from time to time. Shepard wanted – needed, maybe – to give Cerberus the chance to do the same. And it was not Tali's place to stand in the way of that.

But she had seen what kind of galaxy it was. What kind of people lived in it. The sorts of people that had turned her away when she'd been a scared child on Pilgrimage, bleeding out and halfway delirious with infection from a hit-man's bullet on the Citadel. The galaxy was a nasty place. It demanded some caution.

It demanded some… cleverness.

And so Tali had spent the past several hours trying to figure out how to change the broadcast frequency on the Cerberus bugs without destroying them. It wasn't an easy task – the bugs were designed to be tamper-proof, and beside the fact were tiny even by Tali's standards. One slip was more than enough to ruin their brittle circuitry – Tali broke the first two she tried to alter. Then the second she managed to disassemble and reset, but by the time she put it back together the adhesive disk was so damaged the bug could no longer pick up anything audible.

She kept trying until she was almost halfway through her ninth shift, until her eyes were so out of focus and her brain so muddy she could barely think. Her fingers were even starting to shake. Still she soldiered on.

It was only a ping from her omni-tool that pulled her out of her tunnel vision. A message from Joker, empty but for an attached message from the Flotilla. With numb fingers, Tali called up the message.

It was a recorded response from Xen. The admiral's narrow helmet appeared, floating in hologram above Tali's wrist. "Tali'Zorah," she started in her usual aloof tone. "Regarding your request for a quarian crew. Your request is denied pending the results of further hearings. That is all." The message ended.

Tali recognized a wrongness in the message. Further hearings? About what? And why was it Xen answering, and not Raan, Gerrel, or even her father? Tali had barely spoken three words to Xen in her life.

But the underlying message was clear. No quarian crew. At least not now.

Tali was too tired to feel any real disappointment at that.

She looked over at the two humans sleeping on the floor. Ken had migrated in his sleep until he was barely on his blanket anymore, his head leaning back over the edge of the deck plating, while Gabby had wrapped herself around one of Ken's legs and was drooling onto his knee.

Tali nodded a silent agreement and, climbing over the railing into her usual spot nestled amongst one of the bulkheads, joined them in sleep.

* * *

_Seventeen hours later…_

_–_

It took some searching, but Tali finally found Yeoman Kelly Chambers in the last place she'd expected – tending to Zaeed in the old mercenary's quarters. Nobody she'd asked had seen Kelly in some hours, and by the time Tali had walked the full circuit and ended up right back on the engineering deck, her mood had taken another step for the worse.

"So me and 'Wem took the front," Zaeed was saying from his seat on one of his crates, his back up against the wall, "while Stefan and Dungpile took the rear." His leg – swaddled in bandages from the shots he'd taken on the collector vessel – was locked stiff-kneed in a brace resting on another crate, but if the injury bothered him at all he made no sign. "The nest had a pretty big blind spot, so we started up the-"

"Dungpile?" Kelly interrupted, not noticing Tali's entrance. "You had a guy named Dungpile?"

Zaeed smiled at the memory. "Heh, yeah. One of the foundin' members. Good ol' Dungy. Swedish mercenary, real name was… Charles somethin', I think," he said, scratching his chin. "Don't really remember. Never really lived down the nickname once we tricked him into gettin' it tattooed in Gurshki across his arm."

"Oh my."

Zaeed shrugged. "Eh. He got over it. Used it as a conversation starter to meet women. Resourceful son of a bitch, Dungy." He stopped as he noticed the quarian standing in the doorway. "Quarian," he grunted, nodding his head. "Come by for a story?"

Tali paused for a moment, her purpose for coming here briefly lost beneath a genuine curiosity of how you got stuck with the name 'Dungpile'. "Umm… no," she said eventually. "No. I just wanted to see Kelly."

Kelly turned to meet Tali's eyes from where she was sitting. She was dry-eyed but she looked tired, her usually-tidy mane in disarray. "Tali!" she said, and her voice was as cheery as ever. "What's up?"

For a half-second, Tali almost changed her mind. After hearing about the yeoman's unusual behavior she'd become convinced Kelly knew she'd been found out and was hiding out of fear or guilt or some combination – it would explain what she was doing hiding out with Zaeed, in any case, after avoiding him for so long – but seeing her Tali couldn't see a hint of hesitation in the woman's smile.

But that was why Kelly had been the one to do it in the first place. She was a liar. Tali would have to be too.

"I… heard you were upset," Tali said, fiddling with the object in her hands. "About… Miranda. I made you something."

Kelly's eyebrows rose. "Really? You didn't have to-"

Tali cut her off, holding out the bauble she'd spent the better part of a day slaving over.

Kelly's eyes widened as she took the offering. "It's pretty," she said, and it sounded like she meant it. The technical side of the project had been easy for Tali once she'd figured it out, but making it into something a human might find pretty had been like getting fitted for a new suit. She'd experimented and welded and rewelded and picked at it over and over and over again before she'd decided to try to imitate an Earth flower, complete with glass-blown petals she'd shaped out of spare circuitboards melted under a plasma torch.

"It's supposed to be one of those… hair things," Tali said sheepishly, fiddling with her fingers and staring at her toes. "You wear it in your mane to keep your hair…" the awkwardness wasn't hard to fake - she had to think about the right words "…on… your… hair," she concluded, sighing. She didn't look up, her stomach was too busy churning.

Kelly's face brightened. "A hair clip!" She tilted her head and deftly captured her errant bangs in the teeth of the clip. Tali wasn't entirely sure how she did it, but in seconds Kelly had tamed her mane and had it pinned, the new bauble resting picturesquely behind her left ear. "Heaven knows I need it." Kelly turned her head this way and that, trying to catch her reflection in one of the walls, before turning to Zaeed. "How does it look?"

"Bloody fascinating," the mercenary drawled, taking a lazy puff from a cigar. "You look like a whole new person."

Kelly hit him gently on the uninjured knee. "No need to be sarcastic. I think it's sweet." She turned back towards Tali. "Thank you, Tali. This brightens my day."

"Good," Tali lied. "I hoped it would. Because I need a favor. I got word from Shepard. He found Garrus and he's on his way back. He wants us to gather up. Can you help me get everyone in the hangar?"

"Absolutely," Kelly agreed, hopping from her seat. "You good where you are, Zaeed?" The merc shrugged – probably as close to a 'yes' as she was going to get – and Kelly grabbed her datapad and headed for the door. "It'll be good to have everyone back," Kelly said, passing Tali with an earnest smile.

Something made Tali reach out and grab the human by the elbow. "Stop."

Kelly stopped, staring curiously at Tali. She looked as happy as ever, completely oblivious to the way Tali's stomach was flipping inside of her. "Yeah?"

"I don't believe you," Tali said, quiet so the mercenary wouldn't overhear.

Kelly frowned. "Believe what?"

"You know what," Tali accused, eyes narrow behind her helmet. "You know why I'm really here."

Kelly didn't deny it, just stared back into Tali's helmet with that same even, innocent gaze.

"You know what that really is," Tali whispered, gesturing to the metal flower in Kelly's hair. The metal flower that featured, at its center, a trio of tiny, rewired surveillance bugs that reported directly to Tali's omni-tool.

Kelly was quiet for several long seconds. "It's… a hairpiece," she insisted finally. The gleam in her eyes faltered for the briefest moment and Tali saw the understanding there. Kelly was no fool. She knew she'd been caught. She knew she was being given a chance.

Tali nodded. "Of course it is," she agreed. "You'll wear it always?" she asked.

"Always," Kelly promised.

"Good." Tali let go of her shirt, but for one last warning. She leaned in close, voice barely above a whisper. "I have a shotgun."

Kelly's eyes widened for an almost imperceptible second.

Then she walked out of the room with her usual smile on her face as if nothing was wrong, leaving Tali staring after her, wondering if she'd done the right thing. No doubt someone on Cerberus' end would notice their new bugs had gone silent, but Tali hoped with Miranda gone nothing would come of it, at least until she had come up with a system to prevent any more bugging attempts. She had briefly debated asking EDI to fake data to hide the bugs' disappearance, but she decided she was placing too much trust in the AI as it was.

Still, Kelly was a perfect target for bugging. She was the ship's liason – official or otherwise – with Cerberus. She spoke to the whole crew regularly. Maybe even the Illusive Man. And now Tali would be able to listen in whenever she wanted. Give Cerberus a taste of their own slimy tactics for once.

"What," Zaeed's voice rumbled from behind her. "I don't get one?"

Tali turned, confused. "Do human males typically wear flowers in their manes?" Maybe she _should _have made one for Zaeed. Jacob too, for that matter. She didn't figure the Illusive Man told either of them anything – they were just grunts – but perhaps with Miranda gone...

Zaeed grinned, shifting his hurt leg off of its perch. "Nah," he grunted, gnarled hands rubbing just above his knee, "Just screwin' with you. Hand me that." He pointed to one of his workdesks, where a long, silver cane leaned. Tali grabbed it and handed it to him. "Pfft. Not that," Zaeed grunted, batting it aside and pointing at the bench again. "The gun."

Zaeed heaved himself to his feet and Tali handed him his assault rifle. The gun was heavy and pitted with damage, but Tali knew enough about guns to know it was in perfect health. It had even been modded with a driver barrel longer than any Tali had seen before – the gun would pierce all but the strongest shields with ease. Tali almost regretted giving it to him, but Zaeed nodded his thanks as he took it and latched it to his back before limping towards the door. "Can't be seen leanin' on a cane right now, Zorah," he said, tossing her a shrewd glance. He gestured to the door.

"You can't walk right but you still want a gun?" Tali asked, following him out. She considered helping him, but thought better of it. He'd probably reject it anyway.

"Sure. You said your boyfriend's on his way back. That means-"

"He's not my-"

"_That. Means," _Zaeed repeated, waving a finger at her mask, "that it's about time for the Mexican standoff."

"What's a Mexican standoff?"

"Staring contest," Zaeed said, punching the elevator button. "Good ones end in a death or two."

–

The Kodiak had hardly set down when Garrus was disembarking. The heavy _thud _of the turian's boots echoed through the hangar, sounding as angry as his face looked, his mandibles flush against his chin and his eyes narrowed in barely-contained anger as he stormed.

Tali felt a rush of relief to see the turian, angry or not, and almost called out to him, to ask him what had happened, if he was alright.

But she was not the only one waiting for him.

Garrus stopped in his tracks as he noticed his audience. His mandibles flickered in surprise to see the entire ship waiting for him, their own faces dour but for Tali's (she tried to smile reassuringly at him, for what little good it did.)

Nobody spoke.

The staring contest began in earnest when Shepard and Thane stepped out after him, stopping behind the turian.

Miranda was nowhere to be seen.

The air seemed heavy, and Tali remembered what Zaeed had said. _Good ones ended in a death or two_. She stole a glance at the merc, saw his stony face drawn in its usual grimace. She'd assumed him joking, but all the same, he had his hand on his weapon. He'd taken up position a few steps behind the crowd, his back to the doorframe, with a clear shot on the entire hangar.

He met her eyes for the briefest moment, gave a short nod, and she understood.

It was a firing position. Tali blanched behind her helmet to realize it. He had _not _been joking.

She scurried to the opposite side of the crowd, taking up the mirror of Zaeed's position, and rested her fingers on the hilt of her shotgun. Now that she looked, it was obvious. The crewmembers, the civilians who'd never held a gun before, stood in a clump like herd animals, but every single member of the ground team was armed and ready to fight. Grunt stood in the center of the crowd like a monolith, hands wrapped around an enormous shotgun, while Samara stalked the outskirts with her usual stony imperviousness.

Tali swallowed nervously. She would be ready. The silence pounded almost as loud as her heart.

"Well?" someone asked. "Where is she?" It was Jacob. He parted the crowd to stand before Garrus. Blue tendrils trailed from his broad shoulders and Tali could hear his angry breathing from across the hangar. Jacob stared up at the turian, his face twisted in rage.

Garrus was quiet. "Nowhere," he said.

"How _dare _you come back without her, she-"

"I didn't plan to come back at all, Jacob," Garrus interrupted.

"And yet here you are."

"Here I am," Garrus agreed. He didn't sound happy about it.

Shepard stepped in, placing a protective hand on Garrus' shoulder. "And he's here to stay, Jacob. Get used to the idea."

Jacob had his gun drawn in a flash. It made a whirring sound as he leveled it at Garrus' chin. "Not good enough!" Jacob roared, the corona around him darkening.

The hangar practically exploded into activity. There was a shout and flurries of movement and a chorus of guns priming. Tali found herself bounding to Garrus' side, shotgun drawing in one smooth motion to line up with Jacob's head. Grunt's indignant roar shook the hangar, his own shotgun immediately brought to bear on the guards Gibbs and Tennard, who drew on Shepard and Tali. Samara's hands bloomed with crackling blue energy even as Zaeed stood firm by the doorway pointing his own rifle at her forehead.

Garrus did not move.

"You," Jacob breathed, ignoring the guns bristling around him, "are going to take me to her _now._"

"Jacob…" Shepard's voice was warning as he slid in between Jacob's gun barrel and Garrus. His own gun was still hooked to his back. "I know you're upset, but-"

"You're damn right I'm upset!" Jacob roared, and Tali was for a moment sure he'd shoot Shepard then and there. "Miranda was not a threat! I even _told _him that!" he shouted, gesturing at the turian. "And now he _killed _her!"

"Jacob," Shepard was unwavering. "Put. the gun. down."

"Move," Jacob growled.

"You're not going to shoot me, Jacob." Shepard reached out and put his hand on the end of Jacob's gun. "Put it down and we'll talk about this."

Jacob didn't move.

"Miranda is not dead, Jacob," Shepard insisted.

Jacob's barrel dropped a few centimeters.

Shepard's strike came out of nowhere – everyone heard the crack of Jacob's nose and the noisy _whump _as the two men fell to the ground in a clatter of armor and flesh. Jacob let out a shout of surprise as Shepard tore the gun from his grip, but it was hardly a second before he'd slammed a biotic fist into Shepard's cheek. With a roar that sounded more krogan than human he rolled on top of the commander.

The whole thing took less than a second, and the rest of the crowd was on them. Grunt grabbed Jacob's arm and yanked, tearing the two men away from one another. As big as Jacob was, he was a doll in the krogan's grip and tumbled three meters before skidding to a stop.

Tali rushed to crouch next to Shepard, heart thundering to see the state of his face. Jacob's strike had left a gruesome gash under Shepard's left eye that dripped crimson onto the hangar floor and exposed the soft glow of red cybernetics beneath.

"Shepard?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, and tried to rise. She pushed him down with one hand, leaning in to stare at his injury. She instantly regretted ever complaining about the surgery on his eyes – the open wound almost made her sick to look at, ragged edged and vulnerable next to Chakwas' careful incisions. She dug at one of her pockets and produced a portable ultraviolet sterilizer. It gave a hum and illuminated brilliantly in her hand as she ran it over his face.

"I'm kind of in the middle of an epic speech, Tali, I'd-"

"Because you're doing so well so far," she interrupted, sweeping the lamp back and forth. "Hold still." Shepard grimaced but let her finish. Human ships were filthy, and Tali ran the lamp twice, ignoring the way Shepard's electronic eyes fluttered in the glow. The lamp gave a beep and she slipped it back into her pocket, leaning back on her haunches to stare at Shepard. She shook her head. That would have to do.

Shepard rose to a sitting position, grinning under the blood. "Nah, I got this." He winked, his eye giving a click, and held out a hand for Thane to drag him to his feet. He stumbled a little, but quickly regained his footing and was steady enough, waving off the assassin's attempts to support him. He turned back to face Jacob.

Everyone watched him rub his bloody face on his left gauntlet, leaving a red stripe there to match the N7 colors on his right. "We ready to do this without guns?" he asked, shaking off his hand. He raised one eyebrow.

Jacob was bloodied and bruised himself, his face still grim under a trickled smear from his cracked nose, but he nodded. His corona was gone.

"Good. Everybody. No more guns." Shepard gestured around the room. "Guns down. Now." He looked expectantly from person to person. For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Zaeed holstered his gun with a bored grunt and plopped down on the bulkhead to get off his injured leg, and like that all the tension bled away. Tali dropped her shotgun back into its clip on her back. The guards followed suit. Grunt was the last, holstering his shotgun with a reluctant growl. He remained pointedly standing just between the commander and Jacob, however, his bulk a massive wall.

"Now listen," Shepard said, and everybody listened. "What happened to Miranda is not what I wanted. It isn't what any of us wanted. But Garrus has convinced me it was necessary and as little as I like that, I trust him." He stared at the crew. "I don't know what kind of reprisal to expect from Cerberus for that. Maybe one of you does. Maybe you have plans to retaliate." He paused, face dour. Blood continued to trickle from the wound beneath his eye.

"But I don't think it matters," Shepard said. "Simple fact is with her gone I have the advantage. I have the pilot in my camp. I have the XO. I have the chief engineer. I have Samara. I have Grunt." He gestured to the krogan, who stood up a little straighter. Shepard returned his gaze to Jacob, his face even, his tone matter-of-fact. "And I have the doctor," he added.

He let that sink in. He had the krogan and the doctor. He had the only person who could rip a human's arm out of its socket and he had the only person who could put it back. Grunt beamed.

"You're angry, Jacob. I get it," Shepard said. "But anything Cerberus starts, Grunt can finish. If this turns violent, it's going to go badly for you."

Jacob shook his head. "So that's how it is, is it?" he demanded. "Shape up or the krogan will kill me?"

Shepard looked pained. "No. I trust you, Jacob. I stepped in front of your gun knowing you would never turn on me. But if your boss is planning violence against us, if your boss pits Cerberus against me… I'll fight back. And I'll win. I'm asking you to help me make sure that doesn't happen. I'm asking you to be on my team."

"Miranda is dead," Jacob said, voice cracking.

"No she isn't," Shepard insisted. He turned to Garrus. "Garrus?"

Garrus looked uncomfortable. He shook his head.

Shepard nodded, convinced. "She's just off the ship, Jacob."

Jacob said nothing.

"If you want to leave to go after her," Shepard said after a moment, raising his voice so his audience could hear him, "Then go. No strings attached. No retaliation. We're on the Citadel. Anyone who wants out, this is your stop. Leave in peace."

"But if you're staying, here's my ultimatum," Shepard said. He began to pace in front of the crew, stopping to stare at each of them. "We've had some trouble so far, but it all ends today. As of today, if you remain on this ship _you are not Cerberus._ I don't care why you joined. I don't care what your philosophy is. I don't care if you agree with them. On _this _ship, you are a part of a crew, and your loyalty is to every other person on this ship. We have our crew," he said, gesturing to the crowd. "We have our ground team. We have our ship." He paused. "But we are _not _ready to take on the collectors, and we won't be until we can work as a team. Until we trust each other."

"And so I am offering you all my trust," Shepard continued. "A blank slate. A fresh start. In exchange, you will give me yours. We will not keep secrets. We will not report anything to the Illusive Man that is not also reported to the rest of the ship. We will learn to work together – Cerberus and non-Cerberus alike – and we will stop the collectors. Does anybody have a problem with that?"

He paused, sweeping his gaze across the crowd one more time until he stopped at Tali, face expectant. His brows rose in a wordless question.

Tali hesitated, briefly catching Kelly's eye from across the room. The yeoman looked genuine. Honest. As usual. Behind her, the two engineers were trying to look nonchalant.

Tali considered turning them in. Shepard had said he'd remove them if she asked. Maybe that was still right. The Flotilla could still come through for her. Maybe she could contact her father directly, or the captain of the _Neema_. Find a way. Or even if not, maybe she could keep the _Normandy _running alone. Maybe it would be worth the extra work, to keep Cerberus out of it.

Or maybe it was time for her to give up some trust too.

Tali suppressed a sigh. She shook her head.

Shepard gave her a nod and turned back to his audience. "Those are your choices," he said. "Be on the team that beats the collectors or leave." He looked to Jacob. "Jacob?"

Jacob grimaced but gave a quiet nod.

"EDI?" Shepard asked, looking to the ceiling.

"I agree, Shepard," EDI said. "Though strictly speaking, Grunt does not represent a compelling threat to me."

Grunt bristled, but Shepard just grinned. "Tali, then. I'll have her give you Avina's voice."

There was a pause.

"I find that more compelling."

–

In the end, nobody left.

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Select e-mails from the terminal of Operator Fedir Antonich, head of Cerberus' Anubis Cell.**

_From: **RESTRICTED  
**Sent: 6.12.2186 9:42:22:pm EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Operative Lawson.  
_–

_Find her. **Now.**_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Tobias Whent (t_whent_3502741(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 8:08:20pm EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Re: Re: waaay toooo topheavy  
_–

_Never mind. Higher ups love her._

_I guess I'm in the business of making sexbots now._

_Jesus._

_Dr. Tobias Whent_

_Head of Applied Robotics, Hephaestus Cell_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Adam Solheim (a_solheim_5512821(at)020NAnub_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 3:31:58pm EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Re: Re: missing operative on citadel  
_–

_roger that. just don't come crying to me when i bring her back in a box._

_as_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Tobias Whent (t_whent_3502741(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 2:00:55pm EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: waaay toooo topheavy  
_–

_Operator Antonich._

_I appreciate the fast response, but is this a joke? We need someone who can run and fight. Not to impugn your operatives' skill, but the woman you sent us looks like she can hardly walk without breaking her lower back. Besides, the 41B is intended to be an infiltrator. There is no. fucking. way. the higher-ups want it to look like a supermodel smuggling two asari matriarchs._

_Third time's the charm. Send us a new operative._

_Dr. Tobias Whent_

_Head of Applied Robotics, Hephaestus Cell_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Adam Solheim (a_solheim_5512821(at)020NAnub_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 12:41:44pm EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: missing operative on citadel  
_–

_initial scans don't look good. no implant, no omnitool, no word from her communicators, no bank activity. if miranda's on the citadel then ten credits says she's dead and timmy's out of luck. i'll start checking the morgues. maybe the keepers haven't got her yet._

_as_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Tobias Whent (t_whent_3502741(at)020NHeph_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 7:02:00am EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Mocap for infiltrator 41-41-41B platform prototype  
_–

_Operator Antonich._

_While we appreciate your willingness to spare your men for our project, unfortunately there has been a change in direction and the _in situ_ combat motion data we captured with Operative Salama is no longer usable. It is our hope that his data will be incorporated into a later design initiative, but the design team on the 41B has been given new orders._

_Do you have any female operatives who would be willing to visit our facility? Ideal candidate would be 183 cm, approximately 70kg. As before, must have perfect record of health and extremely high (99 percentile) physical aptitude scores. Recording will take 10-15 days._

_We are prepared to offer the same compensation as last time, including hazard pay._

_We apologize for the inconvenience, and appreciate any further help you can offer._

_Let me know,_

_Dr. Tobias Whent_

_Head of Applied Robotics, Hephaestus Cell_

–

* * *

–  
_From: Anubis Station Automated System (donotreply(at)020NAnub_int)  
Sent: 6.12.2186 5:33:33am EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Security profile updates  
_–

_**THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE. DO NOT REPLY.**_

_Attached please find a list of all Cerberus personnel with security clearance expiring this year. Investigations are expected to be completed by the end of the 2186 fiscal year._

_The following employees have also been flagged for additional review:_

_020N5232504Bartels, Lucius – Anubis, imprisoned at Arcturus, Arcturus  
020N6447275Carter, Steven – Prometheus, Rsch post 4, Nepheron  
020N6231289Cole, Brynn – Prometheus, Rsch post 4, Nepheron  
020N7384617Faller, Malinda – Lazarus, on probation at Haribon, Terra Nova  
020N3232889Harrison, Samuel – Hephaestus, NRMNDYSR3 project, Heph  
020N5567123Hamilton, James – Anubis, lambda4184, on leave, Bekenstein  
020N5567124Hamilton, Jeffery – Anubis, lambda4184, on leave, Bekenstein  
020N5568100Kahoku, Alana – Anubis, on probation at Haribon, Terra Nova  
020N6377221Loach, Maximillian – Prometheus, Rsch post 4, Nepheron  
020N6340192Longstreet, Elinor – Prometheus, New Dawn Pharmaceuticals, Trident  
020N6340402Makris, Cody – Prometheus, Rsch post 4, Nepheron  
020N5567110Virden, Tack – Anubis, lambda 4184, on leave, Bekenstein  
020N3502887Weyland, Alan – Hephaestus, on probation at Haribon, Terra Nova_

_Any individuals who fail to pass security investigations should be sent to Iera system for processing._

_Thank you!_

_**THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE. DO NOT REPLY.**_

–

* * *

–  
_From: **RESTRICTED  
**Sent: 6.12.2186 4:02:32am EST  
To: Fedir Antonich (f_antonich_5512221(at)020NAnub_int)  
Subject: Operative Lawson.  
_–

_Find her._

–

* * *

**A/N: **Bam.

As usual, many thanks to my readers, my reviewers, my two betas, and all the many people who have taken the time to comment on my writing. Makes it fun.

The observant might point out that Tali's confusion regarding Kelly's hair seems out of place for someone who - as per ME3 - apparently has three feet of hair herself. To that I say PFFFFTTTTTTTTTT. Boo crappy Photoshops! Tali does not have hair! Boooooo! I reject your reality and substitute my own!

Apologies for being a bit repetitive with codex entries, but this one's loaded with in-jokes so perhaps that makes up for it (?). Next two codex entries will be meatier.

The POV for chapter 23 has been ever-so-patiently waiting in the wings for her turn. And yet even after all that, she will have to share it with her doppelganger. Poor gal. Then Chapter 24 is split five ways, all of them new POV's for the story.

EDIT: This chapter pushes this story past 300,000 words. Huzzah! I'm guessin' about 100,000 to go.

EDIT2: I have apparently caused some confusion with my codex entry. The emails from the robotics division guy are a tongue-in-cheek reference to ME3, not to anything going on in the chapter. In retrospect I can see how this would be something of an enormous throwoff. Miranda is not being replaced by a robot. My apologies - I shall try to be more careful with my jokes in the future.


	23. Chapter 23, Doppelganger, Samara

**Doppelganger – Samara and Morinth**

* * *

_And the justicar are Athame's justice enfleshed, neither above nor below Her teachings. _  
_And the justicar are the Code enfleshed, and neither command nor obey. _  
_And the justicar are the slow crawl of order enfleshed, and fall upon the unjust and the wicked._

_And the justicar are empty of what they once were, and act without ego, thought, or hesitation._  
_And the justicar are empty of vengeance but also of pity._  
_And the justicar are empty of forgiveness and see weight only in justice._

_And the justicar are not moved._  
_And the justicar see no change but for death._  
_And the unjust and the wicked and all who would defend them are ended at her hands._

* * *

–

Samara's hands ran across the enamel of the desk, tracing a line through the oily residue that clung like lichen to the room's every surface. It came off as a dust, making the air shimmer in a halo around her fingertip. She watched the narrow plume twist and fade from behind the safety of her mask.

Her mind was full of dark thoughts.

"Cohexisol," Mordin said, holding a pinch of the residue up to his eyes. Samara could see the scowl behind his own mask. "Effective on most sentient species," he said after a moment, brushing the dust away. He looked at her, eyes expectant. "Mostly safe for turians, repeat exposure potentially fatal in most other species. _I__ncluding asari_."

"I am fine, Mordin," Samara repeated, turning away. The doctor had made it clear how little he approved of her entering Miranda's quarters before he'd cleaned them. She'd already been poisoned once. Still, as soon as the ventilation systems had come back online he'd kept his word and called on her to join him.

Now they stood amongst the remains of a battlefield aboard their own ship. It had been three days since the XO's had fought, and Miranda's quarters had stood untouched. The gas had settled out but otherwise it looked like Garrus and Miranda had only just left. Upended furniture and datapads were strewn in all directions, many broken, pummeled by biotic fields. Blue blood and red alike speckled the floor.

And cohexisol still blanketed every square inch. Motes of paralytic dust swam in the air as the newly-restored ventilation systems circulated the room's atmosphere through the filtration in life support, but left to themselves it would be days before the room was safe. Mordin had been disgusted at the very idea of a biohazard being left to simmer (_abysmal _lab etiquette, he'd said, clucking his tongue), and with Tali busy on the ship's repairs and his own lab out of commission, he'd volunteered to do a proper cleanup. (Samara suspected he had designs on the empty room being a second laboratory, once they'd restocked all the gear he'd lost in the hangar's power failure).

Now the salarian looked positively cheerful as he adjusted the settings on the pressure cleaner he'd borrowed from Gardner, humming to himself and tapping his feet in the middle of the ruined room.

Any other time, Samara would have smiled at the doctor's unflappability. But she had Justicar business on the mind today, and there was no room for anything else.

The room was chaos, but Samara's trained eyes cut through the noise to the patterns underneath. Her head played the scenarios as she pieced each clue together. A turian soldier, coldly angry, armored. No guns, just gas grenades and his own bulk to protect him. The human woman, a biotic of rare power. Fragile but sleek, swift. Deadly.

And unarmed. An innocent. A noncombatant. A civilian.

Samara stooped to examine a smear of red-black blood.

She'd felt the effects of Garrus' cohexisol first-hand a few days ago when the turian had come bolting out of Miranda's quarters amidst a billowing fog. She'd barely had time to turn her head before the gas hit her like a drop-pod, filling her eyes and mouth with fire. One breath and the numbness had reached her lungs. She'd hit the floor before Garrus had made it two steps. If Sergeant Gardner had not come to her rescue and closed the door, trapping most of the gas behind it, she would have been out for hours.

As it was, however, she'd woken up minutes later in the crew quarters, a dozen worried humans at her side. She'd tossed aside their offers of help and, head still swimming, had rushed down to the hangar in time to see the Kodiak leave with Garrus and Miranda on it.

It was a bitter memory already.

Behind her, Mordin sniffed. Samara could feel his eyes on her back. "Repeat exposure compounds risk," he said again. "Please report any feelings of numbness, loss of balance, nausea, pain, lack of b-"

"I feel fine," she insisted again, forcing a smile over her shoulder. In truth she _did _stillfeel a bit woozy, even days later, but the unease had mostly gone.

Mordin stared at her, face dubious.

"I must be here, Mordin," she insisted. "A Justicar cannot abandon her duty lightly. It is in my Code." She breathed deeply. "_And the justicar gives of herself until nothing remains,_" she said, and it was not her saying the words but the Vocicar singers who'd whispered the Code to her until it came alive in her head._ "And fears no journey, no exertion, no death."_ She looked expectantly at Mordin.

Mordin smiled and rubbed at the chin of his mask. "Sutra ten," he said, nodding. "Yes. True." He nodded again. "But also Sutra four eight one." He cleared his throat. "_And the justicar are justice enfleshed, but her flesh is her own, and she will not wither or die but for the Code," _he recited.

Samara did not bother hiding her amazement. "You know the Code…" she said, impressed. As strange as it was hearing an alien say words normally reserved for asari temples, she couldn't help but adore the salarian for his worldliness. Mordin really was wonderful.

Mordin waggled his brows. "Read it before," he said. "Interesting document. Few better for insight into asari culture. Would also recommend 'Matricar Commentary on the Doctrine of Athame' by Matriarch Alaniera and 'Advent of Siari Principles in Interplanetary Computationally Codified Democratic Societies' by Matriarch Coloi. Fascinating reading." He sniffed, nodding to himself for a moment. "But no further digression. Sutra four eight one. Must keep self healthy. Code demands it. Rest." He stared at her expectantly.

Samara bit back a grin. "Soon," she promised. She turned back to the mess. She needed to know what had happened. EDI's cameras had been down, Miranda was still missing, and Garrus... well... he wasn't going to tell her the truth.

Behind her, Mordin sniffed again. Concern swam in his enormous, watery eyes. "If breathing problems ari-"

"I am not familiar with cohexisol," Samara interrupted, changing the subject.

It had its intended effect, and Mordin's face brightened. "Ahh! Uncommon in asari space, yes?" Mordin dove down his new tangent. "Compound discovered by volus terraformers in 2141. As I said, effective against most sentients, but low affinity of oxy-cohexisol adducts for turian receptors made it non-lethal weapon of choice for Hierarchy forces. Lowers breathing efficiency by slowing oxygen off-rate from molecular carriers." He frowned, shaking his head. "Terrible compound. Unethical."

"It can kill," Samara finished for him. Her eyes traced another bloodstain, a shattered gasmask, her mind constructing the scenario around it. An armored turian fist hitting the human woman's nose, or neck, or chin. A misplaced biotic field tearing a vessel in the mouth or nose. Too little blood for talons to have been involved, but it sprayed far and wide - it had been violent.

"Hmm?" Mordin looked up from the hose he was adjusting, confusion in his eyes. "Ahh, yes. As I said. Lethal with sufficient exposure. Mr. Krios in especial danger. Have warned him to remain on lower decks until cleanup operations concluded. Would hate to see his condition exacerbated. But no. Unethical for _patent _reasons. Cohexisol invented by Vol-Paraphan Biopharmaceutics, patented under Citadel law. Patent should have expired twenty years ago, chemical made available for widespread use, but Paraphan adds methyl group and convinces patent board to extend original patent instead of reapplying!" Mordin _tsk_ed in disbelief. "_Unethical _of Mr. Vakarian to support company with so little regard for intellectual property laws," he said, shaking his head. "Hope he will make more informed choice next time, buy from more reputable source."

Samara wanted to smile at that.

"Little reason for worry," Mordin added, smiling himself. "Forwarded catalogs of responsible resellers to Mr. Vakarian's omni-tool. Extracted promise he would look at them."

"Then you have had more success with him than I have," Samara said, rising to her feet. Her attempts to speak with the turian about what he'd done to Miranda had not been fruitful. He had hardly left the battery since Shepard's showdown with Cerberus, and even when she caught him out, he always managed to find a reason to excuse himself. Samara was no expert on turians, but even she could see that there was a new hollowness in Garrus' eyes. A horror in his gut. A wound to nurse.

The turian had said he hadn't intended to return. Samara could see that he had meant it. He would not speak with her.

"Not one to spread rumors," Mordin said, now busying himself scraping some of the gas residue into a tiny vial, "but little else to do with lab out of commission." He tossed Samara a conspiratorial wink. "Am told Mr. Vakarian compelled into an inconvenient mercy. May be upset at Shepard."

"Mercy on Ms. Lawson?" Samara asked.

Mordin shook his head. "No. Personal issue. Suspect he is quite over difficulties with Ms. Lawson. Turians very direct. Very pragmatic. Have difficulty, arrive at solution, carry it out. Little regret later." He tapped at a piece of the wreckage that Garrus had left of the room. "Proactive. Decisive." he said, nodding his head. "Worthy of respect."

Samara stared at Mordin. "He killed an innocent woman," she reminded him.

Mordin looked at her, brows raised. "Killed? Proof of that?" He gestured around the room. "See none myself. Too little blood. Cohexisol dosage within safe levels for healthy human female, providing exposure was brief. Possible killed afterwards but without surveillance footage," he sniffed, satisfied, "must assume Miranda alive - simply unconscious - when removed from ship. Only reasonable conclusion."

"Garrus is decisive," Samara said calmly. She was not used to being disagreed with over matters of crime scenes. "He feared Ms. Lawson, and so he killed her. He would not leave her alive."

Mordin shrugged. "Assumption," he said, returning to his work. "Killing Miranda would alienate important benefactors. Shepard. Illusive Man. Removing her sufficient for his purposes, avoids worst of reprisals."

Samara said nothing.

_And the unjust and the wicked and all who would defend them are ended at her hands._

Mordin seemed to read the meaning in her silence. He turned, face drawn behind his mask. His enormous eyes searched hers for a moment, and she could feel the strength of his thoughts. Realization came to him quickly. "_You_plan a reprisal," he said. It was not a question.

"Garrus is wicked," she said. She would not deny it.

Mordin stared at her, his face unreadable. To her surprise, he did not disagree with her. "Unwise," he said instead. "Mr. Vakarian close to Shepard. An important ally. A friend."

"I have sworn an oath of subsumation to Shepard," Samara said. "I will not act against him so long as it lasts."

Mordin stared at her for a long moment, reading the words between her words. "So long as it lasts," he repeated, letting the words hang in the quiet. Samara stared back, waiting for his response. There was a reason Justicars avoided friendships. Sooner or later they would have to do something that a friend would not - could not accept. It would not be the first time Samara had lost friends to the Code's demands.

She'd killed good men and women. Maidens less than a century old that knew no better and Matriarchs that did. Loving mothers and fathers, asari and aliens, beggars and governors and slaves and mercs and soldiers and everything in between. She'd killed commandos and STG agents and once almost slew a Spectre.

And she'd killed friends, back before she'd learned to avoid them.

Those moments always hurt. She was a Justicar. She was justice enfleshed. She had to hold the Code above all personal relationships. It did not matter that she had grown to like the eccentric doctor. Nor the turian Garrus, nor Shepard. It did not matter that she agreed Miranda had been a threat to the mission. It did not matter that the _Normandy _was the first place that had felt like a home to her in centuries. She admired what Garrus had done as Archangel. She admired Shepard's mercy, his trust, his gentleness.

And yet it did not matter. There was only the Code. She had to be willing to follow it, no matter what. She _had _to. There could be no exceptions, not ever. Otherwise...

Mordin rubbed his chin and thought, silent.

She looked at the salarian and steeled herself, waiting for his response. Suddenly she felt like a child again, waiting for her parents to pass judgment on her for some act of disobedience or another. Knowing she had disappointed them. She prepared for the look of hurt, of betrayal she had come to expect from those who got too close to her and forgot what she was.

It didn't come. There was no judgment in Mordin's eyes, no fear. Only calm understanding.

"Rest," he said finally.

Samara's eyes widened. She had not been expecting that. She'd been expecting Mordin to tell her her code was archaic, primitive. Maybe he'd try to find a loophole. Maybe he'd tell her about all the good things Garrus had done. She hadn't expected him to say... nothing. "Rest does not change what G-"

Mordin's hands were still. "Cannot force personal morality on you," he said. "Cannot tell you right from wrong. Against my principles. But believe Mr. Vakarian's honor sufficient cause to reconsider before swearing to kill him." His eyes narrowed. "Rest. Think afterwards. Perhaps will reconsider. Perhaps will not. Owe Mr. Vakarian that much."

Samara frowned at him. She had no intention of changing her mind, and surely the doctor knew it.

A vile thought occurred. Mordin was planning something. He'd wait until she went to her room and then he'd go to Shepard. They'd ambush her, or lock her in, or Shepard would try to force new oaths out of her. Something. The salarian was up to something.

But one look at Mordin and that thought fled as quickly as it had appeared. Mordin was not up to anything. He cared. About her. About the mission. About the Code, even.

"Rest," Mordin repeated.

"No," she said. "Shepard's will is my own. And only Shepard's."

Mordin frowned at her for about half a second before calling up his omni-tool. He tapped a command into its interface. "Shepard? Need assistance."

Shepard's voice crackled from his wrist. He sounded weary. "Kindof busy with Jack. What is it?"

"Will only take a moment. Repeat the following: Patient Samara displaying symptoms of disrupted balance, impaired eye focus, restricted blood flow to extremities, irritability, headache, nausea consistent with repeat exposure to weaponized cohexisol aerosols. Attempting to conceal symptoms to no avail. Recommend rest, fluid intake, at least two standard days. Repeat."

There was a long pause. "...Mordin..."

Mordin sighed, exasperated. "Repeat: Samara, _rest._"

That Shepard could do. "Samara, rest."

Mordin nodded. "Thank you." He closed his omni-tool and stared at Samara, face unapologetic. "Sutra four nine eight zero," he reminded her. "Third Oath of Subsumation. Must obey."

There was no arguing with the Code. Samara turned to go without a word.

"Shepard will need Vakarian," Mordin said, stopping her at the threshold. "Not just for this mission. In future as well. Will respect your decision, but please. Rest. Consider all angles before acting." He smiled at her. "For Shepard's sake."

Samara stared back at him for a long moment and felt terrible. Mordin was trying to be her friend. The first she'd had in many, many years. The kindness in the doctor's face, his concern… she didn't deserve it. Justicars should not have friends. They never kept them long. But even after what she'd told him, Mordin still tried. He didn't hate her. As smart as he was, he still didn't understand how deep it went.

Samara took a tremulous breath. "Sutra nine," she recited, voice quiet. "_And the unjust and the wicked and __all who would defend them__ are ended at her hands_."

Mordin stared after her as she left the room.

–

Samara could not sleep, but Shepard hadn't said 'sleep'. He'd said to rest.

She could read and rest at the same time.

She clicked the display to the next page. The datapad was smaller and slower than she was used to - she'd borrowed it from Hawthorne to occupy her while she stood guard outside Miranda's quarters - but it suited her purposes well enough.

The next report, this one from Atar colony, filled the screen. _Arlia T'sena, age 511, found dead in her home,_it said. Samara read without expression. The girl's death was blamed on a brain hemorrhage, a freak accident of bad genes and worse luck. Arlia's smiling face looked up at her from the screen, just above a few sentences about her family. A note about an award she'd won a century past. Funeral details. The article said little about who Arlia had been, whether she'd been quiet or reckless, affable or reserved. Whether she might have had an asari lover.

Samara knew better than to try to predict her daughter's tastes. Maybe Arlia had that spark, that… whatever-it-was that drew Morinth to her victims like blood in the water. Or maybe she really had died of a brain hemorrhage. There was no way to know. It was just one event in thousands, one moment in time, now immortalized on the extranet.

Samara flipped to the next report.

It wasn't any one report that mattered. It was patterns Samara sought, patterns that were invisible to short-lived species. Samara had spent hundreds of years reading the pulse of news across the asari Republics. She'd learned to follow Morinth's wake. No matter how quiet, how stealthy her daughter managed to be, she was an Ardat-Yakshi. A wicked, evil thing. And she left ripples of unease wherever she went. She tinged the places she visited with fear. And Samara had learned where to look. A new neighborhood watch, a new law passed against drug-runners, a drop in ticket sales to horror vids. Anything could be a footprint in the clay.

But ever since Morinth had dragged her to Illium the footprints were getting harder and harder to follow. The aliens were unlike anything Samara had seen before. She'd read about many – even seen some turians and salarians in her youth – but to see them by the thousands was almost unreal. They made tracking Morinth difficult. The reports on Illium were different, harder to interpret. Asari communities were stable – it was easy to tell when something was wrong. But when aliens became involved it got more complicated. Aliens were passionate, brutal, short-lived. Uninterpretable. They added noise to the signal. Morinth could have hidden on Illium for decades before Samara could root her out – it was only by luck that Morinth had not decided to stay.

Samara had counted her blessings at that good fortune. Her saving grace was that Morinth would be just as out of place, just as eager to return to familiar ground as she was. Morinth enjoyed a diet of asari. She always had. Illium was as alien as their chase would get, and the next news would come from one of the worlds in the Republics. Then the hunt would resume.

Samara had time. It was why she'd felt comfortable oathing herself to Shepard.

Now she regretted it.

Morinth had left on the AML _Demeter_, a legitimate freighter with all the proper registration codes, and the Nos Astra spaceport controllers had gladly handed over its flight records when she'd asked. The records had confirmed Shepard's story – the _Demeter _belonged to the Eclipse sisters and had escaped through the Noa Key Relay shortly before Samara's arrival on Illium.

_That_ had changed everything, and Samara had asked the controllers to recheck the data, just to be sure.

They were sure. The _Demeter _had not taken Delta Tau back to asari space, back to Morinth's old prowling grounds. It had taken Noa Key.

Into Citadel space. Into alien space. Into the galaxy at large.

Morinth could be _anywhere_ by now.

Samara had pursued her daughter for more than four hundred years, and yet never before had their chase led them out of asari space. For the first time in their long lives, Morinth was taking them to new territory, to new creatures and planets and cultures. Out of their comfort zones. Somehow even looking out at the stars had felt alien and different to Samara. It was new ground for someone who'd been static a long, long time.

And yet... Even Samara could not deny the appeal some aliens had. Turians were violent but so gallant. Elcor huge and unreadable and yet deep and genuine souls. Humans, so passionate and fiery but so _alive._

Maybe humans tasted even better than asari.

It was a chilling thought, but she could not ignore the possibility that Morinth would thrive outside of asari space. There were a thousand worlds Morinth could have chosen, and none of them would put much thought into a lone asari traveler, even one with so shining a personality as her daughter. None of them would send ripples Samara could recognize.

Samara did not know where to start.

And so she went back to the beginning and read and read and read. There was little else to do on her journeys - her fight against the Eclipse sisters on Illium had been the first time she'd struck a foe in almost a decade. She caught up on current affairs. Read about all the new species. The geth, the humans. She delved into their histories, read up on their planets, their customs, their art and beliefs. She learned about the galaxy's crime hotspots. She read about advances in security technology, about mercenary groups, about underworld trade. Everything she could find.

By the time she'd joined Shepard, she could name more than nine thousand cities on one hundred thirty inhabited planets, along with many dozens of orbital communities.

And every one could be a hiding place. It would take many years to find the right one.

But Samara was nothing if not patient.

Morinth would be smart enough not to go anywhere that would report the _Demeter's _arrival, but eventually she would be compelled to feed. She'd tire of running and she'd find someplace safe to rest, someplace with the luxuries to keep her entertained and the prey to keep her sated, and she'd wait for her mother to run her out and they'd start over again. It was the same dance they'd danced many, many times before. Samara knew it would repeat again.

It might take decades, but _somebody _would start to notice the disappearances. The ripples _would _come.

Samara flitted through the next report.

* * *

_427 years ago…_

_–_

Mirala's nerves sang as she embraced eternity. It was hard to describe the feeling. In a way it was just sex, a knot of pleasure that clenched at her core. But it was more, the way her mind seemed to sink, and all the fear and guilt and pain melted away under a calm sea of thought and feeling and unending _bliss. _She felt the warmth of a far off world, the smell of dust and blood and raw power.

The feeling lingered, the glow spreading from her stomach to her frills to the tips of her fingers and toes.

And then, ever so slowly, reality started to slip back. She felt the coolness of the air on her naked skin, heard her own panting breaths. The blur above her sharpened back into the ceiling and she remembered where she was. Qadach's bunk. She felt good. Better than she'd felt in years, and for a while she was still, just bathing in the afterglow.

The getraflies were still dancing in her stomach when she finally rolled over. "Qadach?" The krogan was silent, resting on his side, his armored back towards her. She tapped his shoulder, feeling the thick scales there. "Qadach?"

No answer. She tried to roll him over to no avail before giving up and climbing over his bulk.

"Qad-" She stopped.

Qadach's eyes were open, but there was nothing in them. Previously gold and yellow, now they were dim, and stared out blankly.

He was dead.

Mirala shrieked and stumbled back so quickly she smacked her head against the ship's wall. Memories rushed back to her in a torrent. He wasn't supposed to die.

"Qadach!" She reached out a hand to shake him.

His eyes stared at her.

Her hand pulled back.

Qadach was dead. Just like Ayla. Just like Balirri.

"Oh no… oh no no no…" Her mind reeled. This wasn't supposed to happen, not again. She'd only been aboard the _Cynosure _for a few months but she had already seen the ship's krogan crewmember survive incredible things. She'd seen him shrug off enough gunfire to down a war caternar. Seen him tear a pirate's head from her shoulders. He was the toughest creature she'd ever seen.

That's why she'd chosen him. That's why when the gnawing at the pit of her belly had grown too loud to ignore and she could hold it in no longer she'd gone to him over anyone else on the ship. _He'd_be strong enough to survive her.

But Qadach was dead. She'd killed him. Just like Ayla. Just like Balirri.

Mirala took one last glance at the krogan's body and lost her hold. She retched onto the floor.

She got dressed as quickly as she could and ran for it, hellbent on putting as much of the ship as she could between herself and the corpse.

Qadach's empty eyes stared after her.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

Pragia's rain drummed down in an endless roar. It shredded foliage, it warped vision, it pounded off of the roofs that still stood like thunder. It pooled waist-deep in parts of the facility.

A minute on the planet and Samara was already soaked to the bone. The water pummeled her without mercy, each raindrop as heavy as a roofing nail, until her frills stung and her shoulders ached like she'd been carrying a great weight. Behind her, Jacob and Shepard had it even worse, clad head to toe in heavy armor and hefting a munitions crate between them – their every step became mired in mud, their pace slowing to a crawl. Jack was as naked and vulnerable as usual – she'd already stopped trying to dash the rain aside with her biotics, and even through the murk and the endless field of falling water Samara could see her inked skin reddening under the pounding. Even the vorcha that fired at them from their moldy hiding spots looked miserable in the endless torrent, their flesh pale and swollen with rot.

Samara and Jack made short work of them. Coronae shone in the darkness as the two biotics tore their way through Aresh's mercenaries. In the dark, Teltin facility was a maze of decomposing hallways and inky shadows and vorcha hid in every crevasse, but it didn't matter. Jack drove straight through the walls like they weren't even there, caving them down in vast sprays of mud and water that drove the vorcha scurrying out into the open.

Samara followed behind, cleaning up the stragglers.

She swung an arm and one terrified vorcha crumpled with a little squeal, the pickaxe he'd been wielding spiraling into the mud. His blood floated in the remnants of her field for seconds, mingling with caught raindrops in a midair constellation of red and black before spattering to the ground all at once. Samara pressed forward, stepping over the creature's remains without a thought. The assault rifle Shepard had given her chattered in her hands. Not so accurate as the asari-made work of art she'd lost on Resisti, but it served her purposes. Two more vorcha fell, their throats split by neat shots. She passed them too, unloading a few shots into each of their skulls as she went by so there was no chance of regeneration.

Jacob and Shepard followed the biotics' bloody swathe, and the rain fell and fell and fell, sweeping away the blood of the fresh battle below.

–

"Whoever Aresh is, he'll be in here."

Samara stood in silence, staring up at the pitted surface of a heavy steel door. The mercenaries had fallen back into the interior of the facility, where the ceilings still stood and the great roar of rain quieted to a rumble, but even with the help of a trio of krogan it had not availed them, and now the sounds of rain and battle alike were muted.

Samara let her gaze trace over the door. Even indoors, vines and mildew had claimed much of the building, but she could still see the words 'subject holding facilities' etched in a placard beside the door frame. Not to mention a rusted locking mechanism as thick as her arm. The door was unlocked now, the hallway it opened into dark and foreboding. It seemed to moan with the souls of all those who had suffered there.

Beside her, Jack was still suffering. The woman stared up at the door with none of her previous fury. Blood from the krogan merc leader still dripped from her fists. She radiated might – the woman's biotics were so enormously powerful that Samara could feel the gravity flicker around her even when she wasn't trying. And yet at that moment Jack looked very small and afraid. She had just torn apart half a platoon of mercs with her bare hands, and yet a simple door had paralyzed her at its threshold.

Samara said nothing.

She turned at the sound of panting behind her as Shepard and Jacob lugged the heavy steel case containing one of the _Normandy's _antiproton bombs between them. The case was a mess – more than once it had gotten lodged in the mud and needed Samara and Jack's help to extricate – but it had stayed sealed. The men let the case down with a shudder.

Shepard sat on the case's lid and peeled his helmet from his head. He flicked a hand up at the door. "I take it," he panted, "that's the place, huh?"

Jack's whispered agreement was barely audible over the sound of the rain on the roof.

The four of them were silent for a time, just staring at Jack, staring at the door. The woman gave no signs of moving, and Samara wondered if she would turn back after all this. Behind that door was Jack's Morinth. It would not take a weak person to turn away.

But Jack just stood and stared, her little shoulders shaking.

The minutes slipped by.

"I'm fuckin' fine, Shepard," Jack said finally, as if he'd asked. She turned to frown at him. "Let's just get this over with."

Shepard nodded, hopping back to his feet. He and Jacob unlatched the case, revealing a warhead neatly cradled in the dry foam padding within. Shepard shed his gloves and dried his rain-slicked hands on the foam before carefully hefting the bomb from its home, cradling it against his stomach like a baby. He held it out to Jack.

Jack bit her lip, eyes flicking from person to person. "You… you can bring it," she said. "You can come." She swallowed heavily. "But not them." She gave a nasty look to Jacob and Samara. "They're staying the fuck out here."

Samara looked to Shepard, who just nodded his agreement. He adjusted the bomb in his grip and trudged through the open door, disappearing into the darkness behind it. Jack stared after him for a pregnant moment then, finally, followed.

–

Samara and Jacob stood guard, listening to the sounds of the rain.

The facility looked the part of a tomb. It was a strange dichotomy, being inside a building that looked almost indistinguishable from the jungle around it. The room wherein they stood had long since succumbed to the planet's hyper-aggressive plant growth. The ceiling had lifted out, pushed aside by the implacable wreath of green that pierced it from below. Moss filled every crevasse, blackened every tile. Medical machines laid upended in puddles, their buttons dark and rotten. Animal trails criss-crossed floors where operations were once performed. It was easy to imagine corpses – or skeletons, at least – strapped to the operating tables at the far end of the room, but any remains had long since rotted away, smothered under the dampness. To be fair, some of the growth was quite beautiful – clusters of purple-white flowers huddled beneath leafy umbrellas, great tapestries of translucent tendrils, tiny orange, comma-shaped fruits hanging in bunches beneath the remains of rotted desks.

Still, even in a place so brimming with life, the feeling of death clung to every pull of air.

Samara was not done adding to it. Her hands rested at her sides but she listened, membranous ears straining for the sounds of surviving mercs.

The facility _looked _the part of a tomb, but it was not. Not yet, anyway.

"They will attack again soon," Samara said. "You should prepare yourself." She turned to regard Jacob, who was seated on the empty warhead case, trying to press the water out of his suit.

"Yeah, I know," he said, not looking up. "Can hear 'em gathering. Mostly only vorcha left. Probably behind that big wall there." He pointed, unconcerned, across the room to a rotted wall that had once obscured some kind of equipment closet.

Indeed, when she tilted her head, Samara could just hear the skittering whispers of vorcha behind it, the priming of guns, light footsteps in the mud and rain. Her fingers curled to make fists. "Tell me when you are ready," she said. The vorcha were planning an ambush, but with their krogan taskmasters dead, they would be easy pickings, disorganized and fearful. She would send them to the Goddess with the rest of their kin.

Jacob shrugged. "In a minute," he grunted, shaking the water off of his gun.

Samara found herself watching him. He was beautiful, in his own way. Like all humans, he looked almost asari, no missing digits, just the right size. None of the big, slanted ribcage and knobby fists of a batarian, nor the unnerving eyes that made the drell look so permanently in bonding, nor the sharp edges and lifeless, rigid frills of a turian. Soft features, like an asari, and yet boxier, squarer. Just different enough to be intriguing.

Samara imagined her younger self would have been all-too-fond of humans like Jacob, and for a fleeting moment missed her mercenary days. If only she were still Morinth's age, she'd –

Her mind caught up. No doubt Morinth _had _had humans. No doubt they'd died horribly.

She shook that thought from her head.

"Ready when you are," Jacob said, priming his shotgun. He stood – helmeted once again – and nodded at Samara. Inviting her to lead the way.

Their eyes met, and for a moment Samara couldn't help but wonder if the man would fall for Morinth's games. Jacob wasn't suave or confident – far from it, even – but he was a good man. Miranda's disappearance had hit him hard, not least of which because now half the ship expected _him _to lead the Cerberus crew to rebellion. And yet even after they'd spent a week on the Citadel without hearing from the former XO, even after Garrus had been brought back aboard with open arms, even surrounded on all sides by suspicion, Jacob had conducted himself with nothing but respect.

Shepard had obviously asked Samara to come to Pragia to keep an eye on Jack, but the fact that he hadn't left Jacob on the ship was not lost on her. Even Shepard didn't trust him yet, not so soon after what had happened to Miranda. And yet Jacob still served. He was a good man.

Morinth would eat him alive.

"I believe you have been mistreated, Mr. Taylor," she found herself saying.

Jacob looked at her, confused.

She hesitated, not entirely sure what she intended to accomplish. "I… think you are an honorable man," she clarified. She'd been good at this sort of thing once, long ago, but now… she was out of practice. She forced a smile, trying to put him at ease. "I think you do not deserve the mistrust you have been given."

Jacob frowned. "Yeah, well. Miranda didn't deserve it either, and look what happened to her."

"Her death was a great injustice."

Jacob's face twisted into an angry snarl and Samara knew she had made a mistake. "She's _not _dead," Jacob growled, jabbing at her with one armored finger.

Samara felt her cheeks purple in embarrassment. "I… am sorry, Mr. Taylor," she said. "I did not mean to…" She trailed off, at a loss. She _did _think Miranda was dead. The woman was not the sort to take an insult lying down, and yet even after a week docked on the Citadel she hadn't found her way back to the ship. Even the Illusive Man had been silent on her whereabouts.

What did Jacob _think_had happened to her?

He wasn't saying. "Forget about it," he grunted instead. He gestured to the supply room where the vorcha were hiding, face grim behind his helmet.

Samara fell silent. So much for trying to cheer him up. She sighed and raised her rifle. "I will flush them out," she said, and left Jacob.

She took a few steps towards the rotting wall, gun clenched in her hands, listening hard for any movement inside. The whispers had quieted – the vorcha must have seen her coming. Still, as she approached she felt more and more sure of their hiding place. Vorcha were pungent creatures, and even in the dense perfume of mold and chlorophyll she could smell their stink wafting from across the room. She stopped a few meters from her target.

Then she tore the wall down.

It came apart easily, like damp bread, and half of the room came with it, sliding down into the mud and water with a wet rumble. There were screeches of surprise and anger as the vorcha scattered like insects under a disturbed log, springing in all directions to escape the collapsing ceiling. Samara opened fire, carefully gunning the fleeing aliens through their skulls. They popped and fell. Others scrambled for cover, diving into holes in the rotting scaffolding, but Samara pulled these out and ended them as well. Jacob joined in, his shotgun booming, shredding his targets.

It was only seconds and all the vorcha were dead. Samara holstered her weapon.

Jacob shook his head. "You could have warned me you were going to-"

"Mercy!"

The voice was barely audible over the rain, but Jacob and Samara froze in their tracks, weapons at the ready. Their eyes met for a moment.

Samara took a cautious step towards the rubble where the supply room had been. Fallen steel beams and jagged pieces of moss-tinted concrete lied about in piles, soaking under the new torrents of water seeping in from the hole she'd torn in the ceiling. Samara stepped over the debris, eyes scanning for any survivors.

"Mercy!"

The voice was quiet, weak. And not a vorcha voice.

"Mercy, please!" it called again, and Samara and Jacob followed it, climbing into the collapsed supply room to find a human woman in cheap gray armor, pinned under a fallen beam. Crimson blood mixed with rainwater in a puddle around her as she stared up at them with terrified eyes. "Mercy!" she squealed.

Samara looked down with no pity. "What is a human doing with the Blood Pack?" she asked. The woman had been too slow to escape the falling ceiling, but Samara couldn't see any gunshots on her. She wasn't a prisoner.

"Probably not with them," Jacob said, leaning down to shift the beam off of the woman's legs. "There are settlements on Pragia. She's probably just a worker hired there, brought over to help salvage this place."

The woman nodded frantically. She was shaking. Her skin was pale and spongy, like she'd been in the rain for weeks (which, of course, she probably had).

Staring down at the woman, Samara found herself remembering the slaves she'd found her merc group moving, so many centuries ago. They'd been in bad shape, sullenly silent, abused, emaciated. They'd been mostly turians – even asari criminals rarely touched their own kind – but that had not stopped Samara. Perhaps even as a maiden she'd had a touch of Justicar in her, even before she'd sought them out. Perhaps she had always been just.

It was a pleasant thought.

"She has a gun," Samara observed. It was caught under a fallen tile a few feet away, but unmistakably built for a human hand, smaller than a vorcha's weapon, but with more room for fingers.

"Yeah, but-"

"Find peace," Samara said quietly, and brought a warping field down on the woman's head. There was a wet _thunk _and the merc's skull crumpled in a plume of red. She was dead.

Jacob dropped the beam in surprise, falling over backwards with a shout.

Samara scanned for any others trapped in the fallen rubble. She found an unconscious vorcha peeking out from beneath one slab of stone – she pulverized its head too, pulping the one part of its body that couldn't grow back.

Jacob's voice cracked behind her. "What the _hell _was that!?"

"Justice," Samara said, calmly stepping off the rubble pile to check the next hall over. "And please do not point your gun at me. I was instructed to treat any Cerberus personnel who did so as enemies and deal with them accordingly." She looked down the hall. It was silent.

"But… she'd surrendered," Jacob said, voice quiet. Samara turned to look at him. He stared at the human woman's corpse with a dazed expression, his gun pointed squarely at the ground.

Samara smiled sadly. "She was wicked," she explained. "She was with those who would restore this place," she said, gesturing around her. "With those who would see more meet Jack's fate. She deserved death." Samara had no great love for Jack, but what Cerberus had done to the girl was abominable. She was only too happy to help blow this facility off the surface of the planet.

And kill everyone she found here.

Jacob looked at her. "What gives you the right?"

"The Code," Samara answered instantly. "Passed down by the Goddess Athame to those who followed."

"And you just expect everyone in the galaxy to follow _your_ code?"

Samara could have pointed out that Athame's doctrines made no specific reference to asari at all. She considered other species' innocents under her protection, why should she not consider other species' criminals as her responsibility to destroy? She was willing to die to save innocent humans from the Collectors, why shouldn't she be willing to kill wicked humans?

But she stayed silent. Jacob would not understand, but it did not matter. She was a force for good. Even if it was hard, sometimes, to see that.

"No," Samara said finally. She pointed to the dead human. "But _I_follow it, and it demanded she die. Do you deny she was wicked?"

Jacob shook his head. "N…no. But you didn't have to _kill _her. We could have taken her to the Alliance, or the Citadel, or…" he trailed off. "Shepard wouldn't have…"

Samara knew he was right. Shepard wouldn't have. But who was Shepard against the Code?

Samara set a gentle hand on Jacob's shoulder. He was a good man. Naïve, but honorable and good. She felt for him. "The Code does not always call for death," she said, voice quiet. "But she was armed. She was with the vorcha. Had we not attacked her, she would have attacked us. Death was the only justice for her."

Jacob looked at her, his dark eyes meeting her pale. He did not shrug away from her touch, but she could see the iron in his gaze. "Don't do that again," he said.

Samara tried to find some warmth, some forgiveness in Jacob's eyes, but there was none to be had. She had been a Justicar far too long for that to bother her anymore. She did not flinch. "Shepard's will is my own," she said. "And only Shepard's."

She was silent as she returned to her post next to the big steel door, satisfied there were no more mercs hiding from her wrath.

Teltin was a tomb again.

–

The next person out of the door was not Shepard or Jack, and accordingly didn't make it three steps before Samara hit him with a biotic field so hard he went careening into the wall. Dislodged tiles shattered and he bounced, coming to a stop against a rotting workdesk with a moan.

Samara descended on him. "You must be Aresh," she said, lifting the man like a ragdoll. He weighed almost nothing, thin and broken, worse off even than the woman had been, but Samara did not falter. "Find peace in the embrace of the Goddess." She pulled back her arm.

"Bitch!"

The world lifted out from under Samara in a rush. Gravity upended itself and she found herself hurtling backwards, Aresh tumbling from her grip. She was flying.

It had been a long time since she'd fought a biotic strong enough to send _her _flying.

But she was a Justicar. Almost on instinct, she sliced her arm down, sending her own field cutting through the one that had thrown her. The coronae flashed blue-white as they slammed into one another hard enough to rattle instruments on the walls forty feet away. The fields fizzled and died and Samara slid out of their grip, landing neatly on her feet as gravity returned to normal.

Jack's second attack struck her, but this time she was ready, and deflected the woman's immense push with an elegant flick of her forearm. The coronae crashed again, exploding as they cancelled each other out and sending Jack flying into the far wall of the room with a crash.

Samara advanced, new fields dancing at her fingertips. Aresh stared up at her in abject fear.

Shepard came out of the hallway shouting, his assault rifle at the ready. "Samara! Stand down!"

Samara froze, her fields dispersing away to nothing. She stared at Shepard, at the gun barrel pointed at her cheek, with a cold evenness.

"What the hell is going on?" Shepard demanded, stepping between Samara and her prey. In armor he was a large enough barrier, though Samara could toss him aside with a gesture.

She stayed her hand, instead pointing past Shepard to Aresh, retching onto the ground while Jacob tried to steady him on one broad shoulder.

"Bitch tried to kill Aresh," Jack snarled, dragging herself out of the tangle of vines into which Samara had tossed her. She limped forward, joining Shepard in blocking Samara's path. Her hands filled with blue light that warped with furious strength. Her eyes filled with fire.

Shepard shook his head. "Why?"

"He is wicked. A foe. The leader of these mercenaries," Samara answered, voice calm. "Like them, he is condemned."

"Fuck that," Jack insisted, face red with fury. "If _I _don't get to kill him, _she _sure as shit doesn't."

Shepard did not lower his gun. "I'll explain later," he said. "He's surrendered."

"Surrendered or not, he is forfeit to the Code. Killing him is the only justice. The Code demands it."

Samara caught a flicker of hesitation on Shepard's face, as if he was only now realizing what he'd done, accepting a Justicar's oath. The indecision, the fear was only there for the briefest moment before it was gone, buried under his usual resolve. "I think mercy is a justice," he said.

"It is not," Samara insisted. Her fingers bloomed with blue energy again and she took a short step towards Aresh. The humans tensed and blocked her path.

"You promised my morals were yours, not the other way around," Shepard reminded her. Samara stepped again and again Shepard moved into her path.

"I do not expect you to enforce my Code," Samara explained coolly, taking another step, and another, circling her prey with an implacable patience. Shepard and Jack kept pace. "But I do expect you to stand aside while I do. Do not defend him, Shepard."

Shepard narrowed his eyes. "I _am _defending him, Samara. Stand down."

Samara stopped circling and met Shepard's gaze. "And the unjust and the wicked and all who would defend them are ended at her hands," she said. Aresh led the forces that had been shooting at them. Aresh was wicked. Aresh had to die. The Code demanded it. And if someone protected him…

Some part of Samara quietly prayed that Shepard would see reason, that he would step aside.

Of course he didn't. "No, Samara."

So be it.

Samara nodded and extinguished the fields on her hands. "As you command."

* * *

_427 years ago…_

_–_

"Look at it, Mirala."

Mirala did not, staring away until she felt the navigator's hands push her gaze towards the window. Ampili was below them, a great blue-grey orb. The planet's famous satellites drew glistening lines across the planet's surface in their endless orbits.

"I _see _it," Mirala insisted, turning away again.

"And you still pretend you don't want to go ashore with me?" Navigator Avina (named, as made sure to explain to everyone she met, after the famous explorer, _not _the computer) gave her a skeptical look, one of her painted eyebrows rising on her head. "Ampili is famous for its cuisine, its opera houses, its nightlife," she counted out on her fingers.

"I'm sure it's great," Mirala huffed, avoiding Avina's gaze. She'd heard of Ampili, back before everything had happened.

"And you haven't left the ship for months!"

"I don't want to leave the ship."

That was a lie. Mirala dearly wanted to get off of the _Cynosure. _It was a nice ship, clean and well-run, but it was a turian design. Every inch of it was cramped and utilitarian and so, so boring, no vid hall or bathing pools or any of the luxuries asari vessels usually carried. The crew had done the best they could with it, painting the iron walls in rich hues of blue and purple, but its past life as a warship always shone through. Every day it seemed more like a prison.

Or more like the monastery where she'd nearly spent her entire life.

And that was a thought that absolutely chilled her.

But no matter how she might want to, Mirala couldn't leave – and especially not with Avina. She had been Mirala's only friend since her escape from Thessia. Mirala had been practically catatonic with grief when Avina had found her, and even though she was armed and bloodied, the navigator had taken her in. She'd invited Mirala onto their ship, had gone out of her way to keep her comfortable, had even dried her guilty tears, and she had done it all without asking questions. Mirala knew she owed Avina immensely.

But even as young as she was, she knew Avina wanted more than friendship from her. They were subtle cues – lingering stares, tiny hints in her body language – and yet Mirala read them as easily as if the navigator had had it written on her forehead. Mirala was only forty, but she knew what lust looked like. She had been told she was uncommonly beautiful in ways that even the great Consorts would envy, in ways deeper than mere physical appearance, and she had already grown guarded against it.

So as much as she felt that little thrill at Avina's adoration, she knew she couldn't allow it. She would not let what happened to Qadach happen to anyone else. Her itch had consumed and destroyed him. None of the crew had spared much thought for the krogan's death beyond dropping him off on Nansassa to be cremated and forgotten, but weeks later and Mirala still could not get the great reptile out of her mind. She still said little prayers to the Goddess for him, swearing every day on his memory that no matter how she ached she would never hurt anyone like that again.

She didn't care whatMatriarch Gallae and the rest of the wardens on Lessus said. It _was _possible to control herself. She was nota monster.

She had killed Alya, her first love, and she would regret that for the rest of her life. But how could she have known? How could they blame her for having a disease she had never heard of? How could she have fought the ache in her stomach before it had even appeared? She was not a monster.

She had killed Balirri, her mother's friend, and she would regret that for the rest of her life. But that had been different. Accidental. With a gun. She'd been on the run, she'd been terrified, it had happened so fast. The ache had had nothing to do with it. At worst she was a regular, completely conventional murderess, and as disturbing as it was to take comfort in that, it was still true. She was not a monster.

She had killed Qadach, an unkillable beast, and she would regret that for the rest of her life. Her ache had risen up and eaten him, scales and all. But now she knew. She was not a monster.

She was _not._

She would show them.

And yet the ache was already back and growing louder. Her stomach twisted with its unbearable hunger and whispered to her, guiding her gaze back to the planet out the window. The fix she needed was there, down there in one of Ampili's cities, and all she had to do was-

"I can't go ashore," she said again, tearing her eyes away to look at the navigator. Her next words tried to die on her tongue but she forced them out anyway. "I _did _kill somebody…"

(Three somebodies, now…)

Avina's face twisted in pity, just like it had when Mirala had first confessed her awful story. There was never any blame, never any malice in her voice at all, and Mirala almost missed her mother's tougher love. She needed _someone _to be mad at her, to yell at her, to punish her. But Avina was not that someone.

The navigator kneeled next to Mirala and ran a hand down her cheek. "It was an accident," she said, voice soothing, blameless. "You were scared. She tried to lock you up for something you didn't do." Avina said it so certainly Mirala almost believed it.

Any other day Balirri would have torn Mirala apart with half a thought, but she'd been caught off guard. It had only been bad luck that had brought them together as Mirala had tried to flee Thessia in her mother's clothes. Balirri had seen through the girl's disguise and in a moment of panic Mirala had fired, not realizing the woman's shields were off. She'd known Balirri her whole life, and she'd watched her stumble, fountaining violet blood.

And she'd run.

Mirala almost wretched to remember all the blood, how it had stuck to her hands and how no amount of scrubbing had seemed like enough to clean it off. She shuddered as she felt a heavy tear trace down her cheek. "She was my friend."

Avina wiped her eyes, leaving Mirala's skin tingling and causing the knot in her groin to tighten. "And she wouldn't want you to spend your life miserable. She would understand."

Mirala stared at her. In the starlight, Avina _was _quite beautiful. Mirala had never seen the glowing avatar that was the Citadel's Avina program, but the way the navigator's purple skin seemed to light up the room seemed like enough.

The ache in Mirala's belly intensified. Avina was strong, right?

"Besides, nobody's going to recognize you on Ampili," Avina said, gesturing out the window. "We're ten thousand light years out from Thessia. We throw some paint on you, make up a fake name, and you're invisible."

Mirala looked out the window again. The planet twinkled at her. She knew she shouldn't. It was a bad idea. And yet Ampili twinkled so invitingly.

"You really think so? Commandos would see th-"

"They don't send commandos searching for little girls on the run." She flashed Mirala a grin, elbowed her in the side. "Come on. Give me an alias. Who do you want to be today?"

Mirala couldn't help but grin back. She felt her inhibitions crumbling. It _had _been weekssince the whole thing with Qadach. She'd been good for _weeks_. She deserved a little relaxation. What was the worst that could happen?

A name hopped to her mind in an instant.

"Samara."

–

Mirala walked the streets of Ampili in her mother's skin and wondered what she had been so scared of. The real sun had set long ago but the blue-white lamp orbs that shone down from atop every starscraper still gleamed, bathing the great sky-pavilions of clubs and bars in an intoxicating electric glow. The air was thick with the perfume of fruity drinks and the primordial thump of the bass howranga-flutes, and every corner glimmered with holographic signage that flashed and animated to the beat.

Mirala and Avina pushed their way through the throngs, and even though the feel of the navigator's fingers laced through her own made Mirala's body throb, the alcohol and the music dulled the feeling and she allowed it.

Samara's ephemeral presence did even more. Mirala found her mother's mannerisms a surprisingly natural fit. It had started as a game – she had long amused her sisters with her gleefully evil impression of their mother's even voice – but now she found the identity easy to embrace. Mirala was a little shorter than her mother, but standing on her toes seemed to bring everything into focus, from the steady pace of the walk to the cool, rigid calmness that seemed to cushion the real Samara everywhere she went.

Even as hard as it was to imagine her mother _ever _going to a bar or walking down the street with another asari's hand snaking down her back, nonetheless she _felt _like Samara.

And she didn't know if it was the feel of the alcohol in her stomach or Avina's gentle perfume, but somehow that thought didn't depress her near as much as she might have expected.

–

They partied all night and into the early morning, until they had visited so many bars and tried so many 'galaxy-famous' drinks that they had all started to blend together. Mirala had always held her alcohol well, and by the time the real sun had risen and they got the call from the captain to come back to the landing pad, she had to practically carry Avina every step of the way. The navigator was giggling drunk and unabashedly feely as the two of them stumbled past the security guards to where the rest of the crew (many of them little better off than Avina) were loading supplies into the _Cynosure_'s hold.

The captain watched Mirala with barely-concealed amusement as she helped Avina sit on the bumper of a transport skytruck and finally disentagled herself from the other asari's limbs.

"I tol' you," Avina slurred, slumping down. "That it would be fun."

"Yes, you told me," Mirala agreed. "Sit still or you'll fall off." She helped the navigator prop herself up against one wall of the truck.

"You need to let loose more, 'Mara."

"No, I don't."

Avina had a fuzzy look on her face, drunk and satisfied as she finally settled into a comfortable position that she wouldn't roll out of. She stared up at Mirala, face a furious dark blue blush. "I'd kiss you," she whispered. "If I knew which one of you was the real one."

Mirala arched a brow. "What does that mean?"

Avina just giggled and pointed behind her.

Mirala turned to see her own face staring back at her.

She sobered in an instant.

"…mother?"

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

Samara did not often make use of the couches in the observation deck that had become her unofficial quarters. They looked comfortable, but she'd left comfort behind on Thessia a long, long time ago. For centuries she'd been meditating on cold steel floors in hangars or bunched up in refugee ships. A Justicar's life was hard, and her tailbone was harder.

But her visitor had no such qualms.

"Sup?"

Jack was sprawled out along one of the couches when Samara entered, her bare feet kneading at the couch upholstery and still speckled with dried mud from Pragia. She smelled like the jungle. Her presence made the gravity flicker but she was clearly in no shape to fight, her skin pale and covered with a sheen of cold sweat, her muscles twitching.

Samara stopped to stare down at the invader. "Are you well, Jacqueline?" she asked, trying to sound soothing. She decided a motherly hand on the shoulder was overkill – she did not know how a human would interpret it, least of all _this _human.

"Fuck no," Jack mumbled, turning over on the couch to bury her face. "Fuckin' laid out." Her tattooed back continued to spasm.

"Do you require a doctor?"

Jack turned to glare at Samara. Her eyes were bloodshot. "_Fuck. No,_" she said. "Just _came _from the fuckin' doctor's. Just need a couch." She dropped down again.

Samara said nothing, calmly taking her customary seat on the floor. She had no qualms sharing her space – _someone _should get use out of the couches. Samara dropped into the familiar embrace of her meditations, forcing Jack's presence out of her head and replacing it with blissful silence. The stars were her only company as she called up the extranet news feeds once again. Perhaps it was force of habit that she started with reports from asari space.

_Three Cyoni Citizens Dead After Hallex-Fueled Party_, she read. A stretch, but possible.

"These fuckin' pills," Jack grunted, breaking the blissful silence.

Samara resisted the urge to snap.

"Took the whole bottle and still barely feel shit," Jack continued, her voice slurring. "Told that fucker doctor they were too weak. Won't give me more."

Samara sighed. "I am sure Dr. Solus is simply looking out for your health," she said.

"If he wanted to help he'd give me something to take away these fuckin' aches," Jack snarled. "Instead , he gave me some water. Made me watch a video about the fuckin' evils of drugs. Swear to God I'm gonna have that fuckin' song stuck in my head for _weeks._" She trailed off, muttering something into the couch cushions before falling silent.

Samara went back to her reading. _In what police are calling the worst drug-related death in Cyone's history, three asari were found dead on-_

"What're you doin' anyway?"

Samara looked up to see Jack reading over her shoulder, her chin propped up on her tattooed hands like a gargoyle.

"Reading," she said, doing her best to keep the edge of frustration out of her voice. "Looking for a fugitive."

"Huh," Jack grunted, uninterested. She rolled over to dangle her legs over the back of the couch. For a moment she fell silent again.

Samara did not resume reading. It was obvious Jack wanted something. It was perhaps not surprising – Teltin was gone, and with it the only place Jack had to misplace all her extra hate. The human woman had spent her life dreaming of seeing the facility destroyed. Now it was gone, and she was left to figure out what else to do. Samara did not miss the similarities to her own situation, and smiled bitterly to herself. Perhaps Jack would follow in her footsteps and give up everything that made her who she was. Perhaps Jack would spend the rest of her life roaming the galaxy.

Or perhaps Jack would just spend her time pestering the rest of the crew.

It was hardly seconds before Jack interrupted again. "You fucked up that krogan down there," she said, sniffing. "What kind of amp you use?"

Samara turned to stare at her.

Jack just shrugged upside-down shoulders. "Fuck am I gonna do?" she asked, gesturing to the back of her head. "Mine's off again. Apparently Shepard thinks I'm going to cause some kind of trouble with Cerberus." She grinned wickedly. "For some reason."

Samara's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Jack's expression gave away nothing of her intent. Samara relaxed. Very well. She would be polite. Samara reached behind her head to pull her amp from where it rested amongst her frills. She handed it to Jack, who held it up to the light. Samara's amp was wireless and elegant, constructed of the same polished red steel as the rest of her armor, with none of the obtrusive wires or components common to human biotics. Asari had long ago done away with the need for surgical biotic augmentation – their amps didn't need jacks drilled into their skulls. They were clean, safe, and sophisticated.

Jack snorted, unimpressed, and held the amp up to the back of her own head. "Weirdest amp I ever seen," she said, tossing it on the couch beside her. "How'd you do that thing you did to me?" She stared at Samara, trying to look nonchalant. "Where you fucked out my field," she clarified. Her eyes bored into Samara's, intense with curiosity.

Samara resisted the urge to smile. After all Jack had been through, she was dwelling on whether or not Samara had upstaged her biotics?

"It was an interference maneuver," Samara explained, reclaiming her amp and settling it back amongst her frills. It settled in easily. "Biotic fields compete with one another. Those equally yoked can strengthen one another, but in opposition, even a very strong field can be collapsed by a well aimed competitor."

"So you're sayin' my field was _weak?_"

Samara frowned. "No. Only vulnerable. There is more to biotics than brute force." She turned back to her datapad.

Then gravity shifted and it flew out of her grip to clatter across the room. She found herself tumbling forward, very nearly smashing her head into the window before she managed to catch herself.

Her biotics erupted around her as she whirled around in fury.

Jack was grinning. "I did _that _without an amp," she gloated. "How's _that _for brute fuckin' force?"

Samara did not hold back. Her first field hit Jack on the chin and dragged her into the air a few feet before her next field took hold and smashed downwards, crashing the human woman into the floor with a pained _oof_. Samara flipped Jack over onto her back with a gesture and pressed a heel down into her neck, just over the weakest part of her spine. She stared down at Jack with cold fury.

"Fuck, get off me!"

"Do not do that again," Samara warned, pressing her foot down a little lower. "It is only by my pledge to Shepard that you are still alive." She stepped off, staring down.

"Fuck!" Jack snarled, rubbing at her throat as she sat up. "This is _bullshit_. Why do _you _get to toss people around but every time _I _do it I get my fuckin' amp turned off and some bitch ends up standing on me or setting me on fire or something!?" She indicated the back of her neck, still blistered from the quarian's attack days earlier.

"Because I only bully the unjust. You bully anyone you can beat, and many you cannot. Unfortunately for you I am the latter."

"Fuck you, I could take you."

"When Shepard's mission ends, you will have a chance to find out," Samara promised, returning to her seat. She picked up her datapad. "You may escort yourself out, Jacqueline."

Jack just snorted and hopped back onto the couch, defiant. "Fuck your 'Jacqueline'. Nobody calls me that."

"It is meant as a gesture of respect."

"Well it's fuckin' great that you _respect me _so much while you're curb stomping me. You're fucking crazy."

Samara sighed. "You attacked me," she said, voice quiet. "My Code requires that I retaliate against those who would attack me, no matter their reasons. It is not a matter of disrespect or dislike."

Jack snickered. "Right. You and me, we're best pals."

"I forgive your anger, Jack. I wish you no ill will."

Jack just shook her head, massaging her neck where Samara had stepped on her.

"The Code demands it," Samara continued. She didn't know why she felt the need to explain herself to someone like Jack, but it came forth all the same. "It is a pitiless, inexorable thing that cares nothing for my wants," she admitted, turning to meet Jack's eyes. "It is a cruel master, my Code."

Samara quieted.

"I am a mother, Jack," she said after a moment, voice quiet. "What was done to you… It was the height of injustice. Were the men who did it here, I would destroy them utterly. I would fight – I would _die – _to right that wrong, to punish them for what they made you." Samara had long ago run out of tears to shed but all the same her eyes burnt. "What you went through… was not your fault."

Jack had nothing to say to that.

Samara looked up. "But what you have done since cannot be ignored," Samara said, voice hardening. "The Code demands vengeance for you, but for your victims as well. Even if I forgave you, the Code would not. You must die for what you have done. It is not about what I want," she said. "But I _must _obey the Code. When my oath ends – when the mission ends – I must kill the wicked among this crew. You, the turian, the mercenary, the thief, Jacob... And Shepard."

Jack's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment Samara thought the woman would attack her again.

Instead, Jack threw her head back and laughed. "Shepard? You're gonna kill _Shepard!?_" She dissolved into giggles.

"It is no laughing matter."

"Holy shit, Samara!" Jack said, face brightened. "That is fucking _hilarious._ This whole time everybody thought me or the krogan would be the one to do us all in when all along the most dangerous fuckin' psycho on the ship is _you!?_" She laughed again. "That… that is fuckin' poetry."

"The fact that you are so impressed does you no credit, Jack," Samara said, frowning.

Jack just leaned back on the couch, still chuckling. "Nah, that's fuckin' perfect." She set her feet up on one of the couch's arms, toes wiggling contentedly. "I changed my mind. I _do _like you. You make me look saner."

"I am not insane," Samara insisted.

"But you can't even forgive a fuckin' boyscout like _Shepard_for… what did he do?"

"The _Code _cannot forgive him," Samara insisted. "Shepard protects the wicked around him from my Justice. He orders me to spare those I should destroy, orders me to allow evil to exist when I have the power to stop it. They will claim new victims because of his leniency."

Jack snickered. "Yup. He sounds like a real renegade. Here I thought _I _knew criminals. But a mastermind like Shepard's been here all along and I didn't even know!" She put her hands to her cheeks in mock astonishment.

Samara bristled at the mockery. "I am a Justicar. I gave him my oath, but he has abused my purpose. I am justice enfleshed and he has made me powerless without cause. He has-"

"Oh yeah, you're a real badass alright," Jack said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She reached and snatched the datapad from Samara's hands before she could yank it away. She read the headline, unaware or uninterested in the spark of anger that kindled in Samara's stomach. "Lookin' for a fuckin' galactic fugitive on Cyone." She laughed. "What kind of shit're they gonna get up to there? Fuckin' insider trading?"

Samara grabbed the datapad back. "Two hundred million asari live on Cyone," she said. "More than enough for a thriving underworld. More than enough places for someone to hide."

Jack rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you wanted to die of boredom before the Justicar bitch caught you. Listen, a criminal isn't gonna retire to a fuckin' industrial complex. That ain't why you become a criminal. You're gonna go someplace with something to do. Omega. Invictus. Caleston. Even fuckin' Cenderes is better than _Cyone._"

"I have been watching each of these places."

"What, through crime reports? Half of those places don't even have cops. You think the fuckin' Suns take the time to write down every crime that happens on Omega?"

"Security cameras-"

"Might as well go straight to the Broker, who doesn't share what he can use. Maybe this stupid shit works back on bimbo planet, but trust me, it doesn't work here. You can't hunt on Omega unless you're _on _Omega. That's why people run there." She stared at Samara. "Don't believe me, ask Massani. They _always _run to Omega."

Samara said nothing.

"'swhat I'd do."

–

Jack left her after that, but Samara did not return to her work.

She sat in silence, a biotic field set quietly between her fingers, and tried to meditate over the rumble of her own thoughts. Balancing the fields so they evened each other out was no simple task. Every ripple of movement, every shimmer in the gravity had to be counteracted.

Balanced. Evened. Quieted.

Selsaya, the Justicar who had trained her, had been a hard master. Unforgiving and brutal, forcing Samara to practice until she could meditate anywhere, through anything. It had taken time, but Samara had mastered it. She could balance the orb seated in the pounding surf on Thessia's roughest shoreline, where the rock and broken shells tore at her skin and waves threatened to drown her. She could balance with biotic fields being tossed at her from every direction. She could balance hearing every horrible insult and memory of her old life paraded in front of her.

And yet now the orb wobbled and fought her as her mind refused to quiet.

Jack was wicked. As wicked as people came. An unrepentant murderer. An addict. A monster. Jack was _nothing. _Dispensible. Ignorable. Below regard. Everything Samara had been trained to oppose.

And Jack said Morinth would head to Omega. Not back to asari space. Not to the familiar, the safe, the old. But to the new and exciting and dangerous.

Jack was not an asari, and she certainly wasn't a Justicar. Samara had been tracking her daughter for hundreds of years - nobody knew Morinth's mind better.

And yet there was a reason she'd been tracking her daughter for hundreds of years... She hadn't _caught _her daughter in hundreds of years. She'd been close more than once, had almost tasted victory again and again, and yet somehow Morinth always managed to slither away. It always took decades to find her again.

Jack was everything Samara had been trained to oppose.

But Jack _was _Morinth, in a fashion.

Samara stared at the datapad in her hand. Was it possible for a Justicar to accept wisdom from someone like Jack?

–

It was late that night, after hours upon hours of reading every scrap of information she could find on Omega (no easy task, half of it being mercenary propaganda and the other half in some obscure alien language or another) that she found it.

_Justicar Samara visits Afterlife Nightclub,_the headline said. It was dated less than a week ago.

_The Justicar Samara was seen Sunday entering Afterlife Nightclub, marking the first Justicar visit to Omega in more than three centuries. Samara declined to explain what her intentions were in the area, but assured reporters that her visit would be brief._

Samara's eyes traced the words, barely comprehending. It was the picture accompanying the article that drew her eyes, the picture of her own face looking back at her.

The picture of her _daughter's _face looking back at her.

* * *

_427 years previously..._

_–_

"…mother?" Mirala's eyes widened.

"That's your _mom?_" Avina asked.

Mirala couldn't answer, couldn't pull her gaze away. She had never expected to see her mother again and yet here she was, waiting on the first planet she'd stopped on. Her mouth hung open in shock.

The real Samara showed no such confusion. She said nothing as she drew back a hand, blue light peaking at her fingertips.

The blow hit Mirala like a cannon and she felt the landing pad leap out from under her feet. For a moment she was flying, then she tumbled through a stack of shipping crates and hit the tarmac hard, the taste of blood filling her mouth. Her vision swam with spots as she stared up to see her mother approach.

The landing pad had exploded into shouts of surprise and alarm but Mirala had ears for none of it. She didn't hear Avina's shriek as the truck shuddered and nearly fell under the force of Samara's strike, didn't hear the grind of metal against the ceramic floor, didn't hear the captain ordering her crew away.

But she heard every gentle _click _of Samara's boots against the ground, heard the basso warble of the biotic fields that thrashed around her hands. Even heard her breathing – slow and measured, like she was deep in meditation, even as she stepped forward, face full of dark purpose.

"Mother?" Mirala managed again.

Samara said nothing, simply reared back for another strike. Mirala closed her eyes.

A shadow fell between them and the attack did not come. Mirala creaked one eye open to see the captain standing above her, shielding her from harm. "What's going on?" the captain demanded, her own biotics flaring at her fingertips even as Samara's dimmed.

"I am a Justicar of the order," Samara explained coolly. "By the Code, stand aside." Mirala's mind reeled with surprise – her _mother _a _Justicar? –_but Samara said it emptily, with no malice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The captain stayed where she was. "What are you going to do to her?"

Samara stared at the captain with her iron eyes. Everyone there knew what Samara was about to do. There was a pregnant pause. The captain seemed to deflate. She stepped aside like a whipped oorepup, head bowed in apology.

Samara struck again.

Crates crashed and tumbled around Mirala as she fell sideways across the landing pad in a current of blue energy. She came to a stop thirty or forty feet later, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Behind her, she could still hear her mother's calm footsteps. There was no hurry, no passion at all. Samara was a glacier, slow and unstoppable, pitiless as she crushed everything before her.

Mirala stumbled to her feet. Her body throbbed in agony, but worse was the guilt that welled up inside of her. She started to cry. "I'm sorry, Mother," she managed.

Samara said nothing, simply sent another field that knocked Mirala back to the ground. She continued to advance.

"I'm sorry about Balirri, it was an accident!" Mirala shouted. Bitter tears clouded her vision and yet even through them she could still see the grim emptiness of her mother's face. "I didn't mean to hurt her, I panicked! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry!_"

Samara hit her again, pushing her towards the edge of the platform. Mirala felt her arm break as she caught herself against the ground. She howled in pain as the realization hit her.

Her mother was going to kill her.

She'd lived with fears that _someone _would hunt her down ever since she'd gone on the run, but never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined it would be her own mother. Samara had always been a powerful biotic but she'd left the life of fighting behind her long ago. She was a mother now, not a warrior.

And yet it was a warrior who now bore down on Mirala, pulling her to her feet with another biotic field. Samara grabbed at her daughter's throat and pressed, hard, closing her windpipe. Mirala kicked out, her feet striking harmlessly off of her mother's shining red armor. She saw spots.

Mirala cried and gasped and sobbed as she felt the life ebb out of her, but Samara's face was an emotionless mask. Her eyes were dead. She was dead, replaced by the Justicar's righteous, passionless purpose. Mirala hardly recognized her.

Maybe it was adrenaline and the lack of oxygen. Maybe it was some part of her brain, buried deep in her past that demanded she survive no matter what the cost. Maybe it was the emptiness in her mother's eyes that made her desperately want to claw it out, to replace it with love, hatred, _anything_. But Mirala finally fought back.

She slammed a biotic fist into her mother's face.

Both Samaras fell to the ground. Mirala felt delicious oxygen fill her lungs and drank it in big, greedy gasps. "What's wrong with you!?" she demanded, retching. "Why won't you say anything? I'm your daughter."

Gravity shifted again and Mirala found herself instantly overpowered, slammed against a nearby bulkhead hard enough that she almost blacked out.

"You are _not _my daughter," Samara snarled. Her nose was broken, the sheet of purple blood that covered her chin gave her a deranged look, but her eyes were still empty, still stared at Mirala as if she were lower than nothing, not worth even hatred.

"You are an Ardat-Yakshi," Samara said. "A _monster_. I will hunt you to the ends of the galaxy and _I will destroy you_."

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

It was hard to focus on Aria's words.

Samara found herself staring down at Afterlife's lower levels, to the crowds of aliens carousing below. It was a mélange of sounds and sights, pounding bass and shouted conversation and the clink of glasses, heavy armor and dust-stained uniforms and skintight leather that left little to the imagination, Lysenthi bloom-smoke and the powerful scent of honeymead. It was an ocean of sweat and life and chaos.

And Morinth swum within. Somewhere.

Everywhere. Somehow every flash of movement in Samara's eye turned into her daughter. On the dance floor. Pouncing on a turian at the counter. Bolting out the front door. Samara didn't even know what she would look like – would she still be wearing armor, disguised as a Justicar? Or were the skinny hammocks of cloth the asari strippers wore more to her liking?

"Samara?"

Samara turned to see Shepard and Aria staring at her. Aria had an impatient look on her face, but Shepard looked at her with pity. It took Samara a moment to remember what was asked. "Yes," she said, finding her tongue. "Morinth is very dangerous. She is best left to me."

"Good," Aria said, nodding. "I wasn't planning on sacrificing anybody anyway. I have eyes on her three days ago but she hasn't started anything so I'm leaving her alone."

Shepard bowed his head at Aria. "You've been more than helpful, as always," he said. "I'll go check out this," he gestured to the datapad he'd been typing Aria's news onto, "this 'Nef' situation, see if the mother has anything to help." He turned to Samara. "You want to join me, or…?"

Samara stared at him. "If this woman has lost a daughter to Morinth she will not want to see my face. It would be best if I stayed away." Despite everything, some part of her still doubted they'd find Morinth at all. It would not be the first time she'd been in striking distance only to have her daughter slink away at the last moment. At the very least, if she _had _killed Nef, she would have put some distance between them by now – Morinth _hated _dead bodies. "I will inquire at the shipyards for anyone who may have seen her leave Omega."

Shepard grimaced but nodded his agreement. "Alright. Good thinking." He gave Aria a last glance and turned to go, but stopped to put a hand on Samara's shoulder. "We'll find her, Samara." He squeezed reassuringly.

Samara felt overcome with guilt at that, but said nothing as he turned and made his way downstairs, pushing his way through Aria's phalanx of personal guards. Her eyes followed him all the way out of the bar. She hadn't wanted to involve him. A Justicar's life was one of solitude for more reason than one, and in any other situation she would have forged on alone. But she was bound by her oath not to leave Shepard's side until the Collectors were no more. She had to ask.

It hurt to ask help of a human her Code would have her kill. It hurt to know that she would never be able to repay him, and yet that someday she would be compelled to kill him or die trying. And it hurt all the more that Shepard had not balked at the request. He had looked on in respectful silence as she'd confessed her whole sad story. He hadn't even tried to comfort her when she'd admitted that Morinth was her own blood. His face had said it all, and he'd turned the _Normandy _towards Omega without delay.

Now he was off searching for Morinth's latest victim, putting himself in harm's way for a stranger. He made it difficult to focus on her duty sometimes.

Another hand closed around her shoulder, but this time there was no tenderness there. For a split second Samara was sure it was Morinth and she recoiled with hundreds of years of hard-earned instinct, very nearly tearing the entire suite apart with a biotic field before catching herself.

It was one of Aria's guards. The batarian. His thick-knuckled hand dug into the plate of her shoulder. "Aria's done with you," he growled, apparently unaware of how close to being pulverized he'd just come. "Beat it."

Aria laughed. "Oh please, Anto. She could destroy this whole club if she wanted to, and even I might have trouble stopping her." She shot her guard a toothy grin. "You wouldn't have a chance."

The batarian released Samara's shoulder.

Aria was not done. "In fact? Bow." She pointed to the floor.

All four of the batarian's brows rose. "Ma'am?"

"You heard me. This is a Justicar. A scion of justice for my people, to be afforded great respect. Bow to her," she repeated. She gestured around the room. "All of you."

The guards muttered their confusion but didn't argue, and one by one dropped to press their foreheads against the floor. Samara watched them passively, and was struck by unpleasant memories of when she'd caught her daughter being worshipped as a god by a whole village. She looked at Aria, who grinned back at her, clearly enormously proud of herself, bathing in her own power to be able to order around a platoon of merc guards. Samara supposed it was a clear enough symbol that Aria herself didn't bow, or even bother getting up off of her couch. She was in charge of her domain. She was the one the guards were _really _bowing to.

"She looks just like you," Aria said. Morinth.

Samara said nothing.

"Of course, I knew she was lying," Aria continued. "She had the armor, the voice, even the walk right. Anybody else would have never known the difference. But her eyes…" Aria tapped her temple. "They were not Justicar eyes. Much too much life in them."

Samara frowned. She knew they looked similar, of course. Morinth had used their uncanny resemblance to escape Thessia in the first place, all those years ago when she was still Mirala. Every few decades Samara would catch her doing it again. She'd even seen security footage of her daughter impersonating her and had to admit, it was a masterful mimicry.

And yet somehow she'd never bought it. She and Morinth looked the same, but they could not be more different. Morinth was a hedonist. A killer. A monster. Did what she did only for herself. While Samara… she had given up everything for duty.

Aria seemed to read her thoughts. "Even so," she said, pretending to inspect her fingernails. "I suppose only one of you is going to leave this station. It won't be easy knowing which, even for the boyscout." She gestured the way Shepard had gone.

"Shepard will know," Samara insisted. "He is a good man. He will see her wickedness."

Aria rolled her eyes. "I don't know… Anybody can act like they care about duty if it gets them what they want." She fixed Samara with a knowing glare that said she was not just talking about Morinth.

Samara frowned. "If you mean to imply something, I'd-"

"Not at all," Aria interrupted, returning her gaze to her nails. She let the silence drag on a few seconds before continuing. "They say to become a Justicar is to become justice enfleshed." She met Samara's eyes. "But they also say it's to trade one slavery for another. They can pretend it's about duty, but nobody gives up a life they haven't already lost."

Samara had to fight to maintain her calm. She felt tears threatening to burst forth at the jibe. It was astonishing how quickly the other asari could get under her skin. But she had not spent centuries meditating away unpleasantness for nothing. The anger and sorrow were quickly stifled. "I gave up my life for the duty I owe her victims," she said, voice quiet.

"Of course," Aria said. "And you don't feel _anything _besides that." She rolled her eyes again.

Samara had to avert her eyes. She stared at her toes in silence and felt the sorrow crash at her gates. Aria was… right.

"Did she look… well?" she asked, voice just a whisper.

Aria was not smiling anymore. "She did," she said. "She looked happy. Healthy."

Samara said nothing.

"Do you know what 'Omega' means, Justicar?" Aria asked. "It means the end. The finish. The last part. The final blow. Your search will end here. You are almost done."

Samara was shocked to feel another hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Aria standing before her, a dark sympathy on her face. The Queen of Omega looked different on her feet, like a different person.

"It will be over soon," Aria promised. "The damn Code will be happy and you can rest."

"What is the Code to you?"

Aria shrugged. "Nothing. It's dead here, and that's the way I like it." She patted Samara's shoulder one last time. "But I _do _know what it is to be a mother."

Samara finally let her tears fall.

* * *

_427 years previously…_

_–_

A monster.

Mirala's heart broke.

After all that had happened, after the way the doctors pretended to want to help but would not touch her or her sisters without gloves, after Matriarch Gallae had calmly explained to them how none of them were capable of feeling any empathy at all, after she'd heard one of the guards call Rila – _Rila, _of all people_ – _a witch, there had been one ray of light left to her. Mirala had believed, earnestly believed, that no matter what people called her, her family – her sisters and her mother – did not blame her. Of course they wanted her to submit to the monastery like a good little demon of the night winds, but they didn't really hold it against her that she tried to escape, even if she had accidentally killed someone to do it.

She was just trying to be free. She wasn't a monster.

She had had it all planned out. She could never return to Thessia, obviously, never see her family in person again. But she'd run until the galaxy forgot about her and her mother and sisters would move on. And then she'd send letters. Cryptic letters, never any clue as to where they were from, just reminders that she was still out there. That she still loved them, after all of it.

But a year away and her own mother had already moved on.

She'd moved on to calling her a monster.

The ache in Mirala's stomach roared at the injustice of it and she felt all her sorrow evaporate under the hunger as some new pocket of strength erupted inside of her.

Her eyes darkened and she met her mother's empty gaze.

* * *

–

Samara had never felt a pain so intense. In an instant, all of the training the Justicars had drilled into her head, all the meditating and oaths she had endured to erase the part of her that felt pain, the part of her that felt anything, simply vanished. She released her daughter like she'd been burnt, but it wasn't quick enough.

She blacked out before she hit the ground.

* * *

_Presently…_

–

Morinth was dead.

It hurt, how easy it had been. How easy the end had come.

_Justicar Selsaya stood over her, her face hard and cold as iron. Samara's tears would not move her._

She had expected to hesitate. To balk at the last moment. How could she kill her _daughter?_She'd hunted her for hundreds of years, but when she finally caught up, when Morinth finally had nowhere to run, could she do it?

_"You understand that we do not suffer oathbreakers to live," she said. It was not a question._

But it had been easy. There had been no hesitation. One strike, and Morinth's hunger ended forever.

_"My life is ended. I am gone." Samara replied._

She had killed her daughter without even the decency of hesitation. She really _was _gone.

_"The mind pledged in grief often regrets it in happier times. But a Justicar knows only duty."_

The price had finally been paid.

_"Only duty," she agreed. "I will be your loyal sister." She was still crying._

Almost five hundred years since she'd sold herself to the Justicars. For duty. Or so she'd told herself.

_"No. You will be no one's sister. No one's mother. Lover. Daughter. You will be Justicar Samara, but it will be a flimsy name. Behind it, only the Code."_

Five hundred years she could have spent keeping in touch with her other daughters. Five hundred years she could have painted or written or travelled. She could have become a Matriarch. She could have trained biotics. Been a pilot. Written her story, so those who came after could learn from it.

_"Only the Code."_

But she'd become a Justicar instead. Aria had been right about her. Not all Justicars joined to escape themselves, but she had. She'd given up everything. Her daughters, her name, her life. Everything. All in trade for the Code and its ironclad simplicity. Her life for moral certainty. That was the trade. It had given her the path she needed. And all she had to do was kill her daughter.

_"Then speak the words and become justice enfleshed."_

Behind her, she heard the door open, heard Shepard step into the room on soft feet.

_"I am a Justicar."_

She was still paying the price.

–

Shepard set the tray down on one of the couches. Samara could smell the meal. Some kind of hot soup, much more appetizing than the usual fare. Gardner was treating them today. Or perhaps it was his way of expressing sympathy.

It did not appeal.

"Brought you dinner," Shepard said. "Thought you'd prefer to eat in he-"

"I am going to have to kill you, Shepard," Samara interrupted, unable to bear hiding it any longer. She did not look at him, or at the meal, but stared out at the stars.

Shepard sighed. "Yeah... Jack told me."

"She wished to cause trouble."

"Nah, I think she actually meant to avoid some this time. We... we've been getting along better. Had a good talk down on Pragia. I think it won me some points with her." He paused. "Or maybe it was the whole antimatter warhead I gave her."

"You are changing the subject."

Shepard scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah... well... Not every day one of my friends tells me she's going to kill me as soon as I get back from a suicide mission."

_Friends. _The man really was that simple. And he meant it. She had little doubt that he knew her plans by the time he agreed to help with Morinth. He had put himself in danger all the same. "I am sorry."

"Yeah, me too. I don't suppose there's any way you cou-"

"Do not ask me to forgive you, Shepard. Do not. You must understand what that would mean to me." She'd considered it. Considered pointing Shepard to a loophole in the Code, or perhaps extending her oath. Something to spare him.

But she hadn't even spared her own daughter. Was Shepard more important to her? How could she give him mercy she hadn't given her own child?

She almost wanted to cry. Wanted to mourn. Wanted to believe there was something left. Some speck of the person she was.

Shepard said nothing for a long time. Maybe he was waiting to see her tears too. But they did not fall. They stayed on the cusp. Balanced.

Shepard sighed again. "It's okay, Samara. I understand." He paused. "Or maybe not," he admitted, "but you're my friend. And I trust you. I need you. So we'll just... cross that bridge when we come to it." He touched her shoulder, and his fingers were warm. "Can we still be friendly until you smash me into a pulp?"

Samara actually smiled. "I would like that."

* * *

_427 years previously…_

_–_

Mirala sat in her bunk, staring at the wall and imagining Ampili shrinking as they left it behind. She'd left her mother unconscious on the platform. For all her power – and Samara had been a formidable biotic even before the Justicars had gotten her – it had taken only the briefest effort for Mirala and the ache that lived in her belly to squash her. Even with her arm broken, her head swimming in an alcoholic haze, Mirala had swatted her like an insect.

Just like Qadach. No matter how strong they looked, they couldn't stand the feeling of Mirala's mind on theirs.

But somehow Mirala knew her mother was still alive.

The _Cynosure _would meet the relay in less than an hour and be on the other side of asari space before the end of the day. There were a dozen Ampilis to hide on without even leaving the Republics. Dozens more planets in alien hands, planets that had never heard of Ardat-Yakshi and never would. There was a whole galaxy to escape to.

And yet somehow Mirala did not think she could hide. There were no more games. No more delusions of a happy outcome. She was on the run from her people. From her _mother. _And they would never stop hunting her.

"Mirala?"

Mirala did not look up at Avina's voice. The quiet tremble in it told her all she needed to know. The navigator was afraid.

"Are you… alright?"

"I'm fine," Mirala lied, eyes not leaving the wall. Her broken arm throbbed in her lap.

"What happened back there?"

Mirala didn't answer. Didn't want to answer. Didn't know how to begin.

"Mirala?"

"I'm an Ardat-Yakshi," she admitted finally. She had never said the words aloud before, not even to herself. She'd always used euphemisms. She was sick. She had a condition. She had 'parasitic melding syndrome'. Her nerves displayed 'extreme dominance'. Lethal familial sexual dysfunction.

She was a demon of the night winds.

She was an Ardat-Yakshi.

They were ugly words. Didn't even sound like asari words, more like the aliens' ugly tongues, all sharp stops and glottal noises, not the smooth syllables asari used. Ardat-Yakshi.

Ugly words.

Ugly words, but true.

"I'm an Ardat-Yakshi," she repeated, louder this time. It was strangely liberating, finally saying it. She felt Avina's weight settle on the bed next to her, felt the other asari's head settle in the crook of her neck. The ache in her stomach rumbled anxiously.

Avina kissed her neck. "What's an Ardat-Yakshi?" she asked, breath tickling at Mirala's skin.

Mirala turned to meet Avina's eyes. She could read the desire there, stronger than ever. "A monster, I guess," she admitted. She had no strength left, no will left to struggle.

Avina kissed her again, this time on the lips. "You're not-," another kiss, "a monster," one more, "at all."

Mirala didn't resist her advances. The ache in her stomach demanded and she had no strength left to resist. She obeyed, leaning in to kiss back, tentative at first, then hungrier, pressing in until her lips bruised. She could taste Avina's need for her, feel the first ripples of the navigator's mind on her own.

"Yes I am," she whispered, and her eyes were already turning black.

* * *

**Codex Entry: The Queenless War and the Oaths of Subsumation**

Though historians debate the precise timing, most agree that the Justicar Order – in its nascent form – was established at least thirty five thousand years BCE, as part of the doctrine of the Goddess Athame. Justicars – whose name means 'Avatar of Justice' in the now-extinct Sathic tongue, were said to be descendant of Athame's bodyguards, and ultimately came to represent the military and judicial arm of the Athami Sects, just as the Vocicar ('Avatars of the Voice') and Matricar ('Avatars of the Mind') came to fill religious and leadership roles.

Though the Doctrine of Athame has few practitioners in modern times – having been largely replaced by Siaric philosophies since the fifty-first century BCE – it nevertheless continues to have a significant influence on asari cultures. References to the Goddess Athame and her Code are commonplace, and while the temples of Sathen largely stand empty, the Justicars continue their millennia old mission to enforce the Athami Code – a mission for which they are afforded an enormous amount of operational freedom by the Republics in deference to Athame.

The Code – originally four thousand, four hundred, forty-four sutras of moral commandments and courses of action – was modified seven times by the Athami Vocicar, but never so significantly as at the closing of the Queenless War in 19878 BCE, some seventeen thousand years before the asari developed STL space travel. Thessia at the time was undergoing an industrial revolution as the religious monarchies that had dominated the planet for millennia slowly crumbled to give way to the first city-states. Borders changed swiftly and small wars were common, but by and large peace was maintained – in part because of the stabilizing influence of the doctrine of Athame, which was practiced almost planet-wide. The sect's ruling Vocicar councils were based in a series of massive temples in the city-state of Sathen, and as such Sathen's largest city, Niara, was viewed by many as the unofficial capital of the world.

The Queenless War began in the monarchial city-state of Aksh when local Justicars discovered – through unknown means – that the region's popular ruler, Queen Matriarch Iilinala, was a minor Ardat-Yakshi. As per their Code, the local Justicars wasted no time in abducting the Queen from her palace and imprisoning her within Bailal temple, a remote monastery in Aksh's Aelic Mountain chain.

The abduction had swift repercussions on Aksh's political stability. The region had been host to long-standing strife between rival asari guilds, and Queen Iilinala's popularity was regarded as the only thing preventing a rebellion. With the queen indisposed, rebels jumped on the opportunity to attack several key fortresses, instigating a civil war that had been quietly brewing for many decades. Aksh loyalists made several entreaties to the Justicars to release their ruler, but were met by stony denial. The Code was clear – Ardat-Yakshi belonged in captivity, no matter who they were.

The political situation in Aksh rapidly collapsed. Accusations began to fly that the Justicars had acted on orders of Sathen's rulers in a bid to depose Aksh's monarchy, and loyalist forces began moving against their neighbors to the north. As the fighting began, Queen Iilinala's trusted General Alana led a contingent of the Aksh royal army to Bailal temple where the queen was being imprisoned, demanding her release. At the Justicars' refusal, General Alana ordered the attack. Justicar forces engaged the army and despite being outnumbered four times over, managed to hold off the advance for eighteen days before being defeated. The battle was bloody and cost many lives, including the Queen's and General Alana's along with Bailal's entire contingent of Justicars and Ardat-Yakshi prisoners.

The war that spread across most of the asari city-states. Aksh itself was effectively destroyed after the royal family was butchered – historians debate to this day whether the family was killed by Justicars or political rebels, and whether or not any of them were truly Ardat-Yakshi like the former Queen Iilinala. One persistent legend holds that one of the Aksh ruling family – Princess Taiasa, the Queen's cousin, may have escaped the slaughter, and went on to unite thousands of Ardat-Yakshi into a hidden death cult in retaliation for her family's death. To this day Taiasa is revered as a minor deity amongst downtrodden asari, and worship of her name goes on in secret among the Ardat-Yakshi interred in many Justicar monasteries.

The war waged for more than a decade, and later became known as the Queenless War due to the deaths of many high-ranking asari rulers. Queen Iilinala and her general were the first, but throughout the course of the war, Justicars assassinated at least nine monarchs after deeming their actions (usually anything perceived as in defense of Aksh or against Sathen) unjust. The loss of so many rulers led to significant power struggles throughout much of the world as smaller factions vied to fill in the holes. Amongst some of these new power structures were the beginnings of the asari democratic communes that would ultimately unite to form the Republics a few centuries later.

The Queenless War was ultimately brought to an end when, under pressure by Sathen's secular government, the Athami Vocicars recalled Justicars worldwide to the Sathen temples in Niaria, and convened in the Second Council of Niara. After eleven sessions of deliberation, a new dogmatic constitution was emplaced, altering and unifying the Athami doctrine worldwide.

Most significantly, the Council added an addendum to the Justicar Code, five hundred and fifty six sutras that outlined the three Oaths of Subsumation. These oaths were intended to provide a safeguard between the Justicars' actions and the increasingly powerful secular asari governments, in an attempt to prevent a repeat of the abduction of Queen Iilinala. The First Oath, taken by all Justicars upon joining the order, reaffirms fealty to the Doctrine of Athame and the Vocicars, along with the asari as a species. It prevents Justicars from following the Code at the expense of the sect, or of the asari as a whole. The Second Oath of Subsumation, taken by a Justicar upon entering a new city-state (or, later, planet) swears a degree of cooperation with local law enforcement, which includes non-interference with ongoing investigations along with obliging a single day's grace period of obedience in case of conflicts, giving authorities time to contact the Vocicar to mediate a compromise. The Third Oath of Subsumation is left to each Justicar's discretion, and allows a Justicar to swear total fealty to an individual of her choice – effectively disabling the Code for a predetermined period.

–

* * *

**A/N: **I return! Again! I am gonna finish this damn story if it kills me.

So. I'm aware that this interpretation of Samara is somewhat radical, but I like it. I think it solves a lot of problems with her character as portrayed in the games. I think Samara resembles Miranda in a lot of respects in that she's a really great concept for a character who never meets her potential in the plot because the game has to treat the squadmates as more or less interchangeable. But how sweet would it have been if certain decisions made with Samara in the party would result in having to fight her at the end of the game? Sweet, methinks. In any case, I hope you enjoyed my somewhat darker but – I think – more consistent and interesting take on Samara.

Many thanks to my two betas, whose honesty is appreciated, even when they don't agree with me.

In other news, I have recently joined the team of the very cool Marauder Shields project run by koobismo. For those of you who might not be familiar with it, Marauder Shields is a comic series being written to provide an alternate, more satisfying ending to the Mass Effect franchise. The author, koobismo, is a sharp fellow and is doing good work, and if you haven't checked it out yet, you should. Look on DeviantArt.

Not convinced? Well what if I told you koobismo has put together a team to record audio-book versions of his comics, and that yours truly had won the audition to voice act Zaeed "Goddamn" Massani? Can you resist the chance to hear Assaultsloth's dulcet tones? I'm also doing some 3d art for the series (*cough* female turian, about time *cough*) and writing some various humor shorts and songs for the MS voice actors to perform (*cough* Tali gangsta rap, about time *cough*) which should air on the Marauder Shields website when it goes live this month. One might also consider following slothwithagun and/or koobismo on Twitter, if one was so inclined.

My point is, check it out. You'll probably enjoy it.

Okay. Done advertising.

Let's see. One last question. Out of curiosity, are any of my readers familiar with Photoshop, 3dsmax, Zbrush, or similar 3d and 2d digital art programs? I ask because I am considering starting a Mass Effect related project, and I'm curious if anybody would be interested in helping make it happen.

Chapter 24 was a colossal pain in the ass. As aforementioned, it is split between 5 characters, all of them new for Interstitium. The next three chapters after that, though, are all super exciting for me – 2 returning characters and one new. Fifty internet points for any who can predict the POV's for chapters 24-27.

Stay tuned!


	24. Chapter 24, Mutiny, the Admirals

**Mutiny – The Admiralty Board**

* * *

_–_

The message kept repeating.

"...We locked down navigation. Weapons are offline. Our mistake won't endanger the fleet. They're burning through the door. I don't have much time. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Jona, if you get this, be strong for Daddy. Mommy loves you very much..."

The message crackled and died for the nth time, leaving Xen and her geth patient embalmed in a heavy quiet. The static hummed for a few seconds, then clicked, and died.

The message restarted. "...We locked down navigation. Weapons are offline. Our mistake won't endanger the fleet. They're burning through the door. I don't have much time. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Jona, if you get this, be strong for Daddy. Mommy loves you very much..."

Xen listened to the quarian in the message die yet again, unmoved from her work.

Geth weren't, as a rule, subject to the inconvenience of pain, but they knew when they were damaged courtesy of hundreds of tiny sensors spread throughout their armored chasses. Hundreds of tiny sensors that had to be deactivated one painstaking incision at a time before any work could be done. Geth platforms had evolved since they were made by quarian hands – their wiring had shrunk a hundred fold and optimized into networks that only synthetic minds could understand. Even Xen needed a magnifier and a VI-assisted stabilizing glove to operate, and even so it took days.

But she would _not _let this geth flash its memory.

The machine flexed its long neck back and forth, the dim socket where its optics had once been installed shuttering and focusing as it tried to look around the room, as if it had not yet realized it was blind. It was bolted down in six places, its vocoder resected, its arms and legs long since tossed out the _Moreh's _trash ejector.

It was helpless, free only to listen in the dark.

The quiet came back again, just long enough for Xen to hear the footsteps behind her. They seemed to thunder in the long hours of solitude. Before she'd retreated to her lab she had asked her crew for a few days' quiet (it was not prudent to let anyone see her working on live geth, even on such a small ship as the _Moreh_).

Which meant it had been a few days already. She didn't look up from her work.

"You asked for a report, ma'am, when the new crewmember arrived." Kobol was direct.

The message restarted again. "...We locked down navigation. Weapons are offline. Our mistake won't end-" It clicked off.

Xen did not look up. "Back on, please," she said (though it was not a request). "I am thinking."

Kobol muttered an apology and restarted the message again. "...We locked down navigation. Weapons are offline. Our mistake won't endanger the fleet. They're burning through the door. I don't have much time. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Jona, if you get this, be strong for Daddy. Mommy loves you very much..."

"Thank you," Xen said (though it had not been a request), and kept working, the microwelder in her fingers leaving tiny droplets of molten wire in glistening patterns that she needed a lens to properly see. As delicate as the work was, Xen never made a mistake. She was slow, patient, cautious, methodical. Every move was perfect.

If it wasn't, she risked killing her patient, and _she _had no Tali'Zorah to ship her new ones.

"Ma'am," Kobol asked, clearing his throat.

"Put it on the desk."

"Very good, ma'am. I've also brought you rations, if you-"

"No."

"It's been four days, ma'am. You should eat."

Xen ignored him.

"Do you want to meet your new crewmember?"

Xen rolled her eyes behind her visor. Of _course _not. Still, Kobol had a head for this kind of thing. He was probably right – she had to make _some _effort, no matter how feigned. She looked up to the tall boy standing next to Kobol. His suit was recycled but clean, very little accoutrement. A crust of whitish dust clung to his boots and gloves – he must have just stepped off the shuttle. He slouched. He was afraid. Though whether he was afraid of Xen, the mutilated geth, or the last words of a dying mother looping on the overhead monitors, it was hard to say.

"Welcome to the _Moreh_," Xen said, offering him a perfunctory hand grasp that left her glove dusty.

"Thank you, ma'am," the boy said, visibly relieved. "Do you prefer to be called Captain Xen or Admiral Xen?"

Xen frowned. Technically either worked, since the Conclave had accepted her ship's petition to leave her captain position untouched, so long as she chose a representative. "I prefer not to be called upon at all," she said. "I expect you to remain in the lower labs until I summon you elsewhere."

The boy recoiled like he'd been bit. He glanced at Kobol, but the older quarian offered no help. He returned his gaze to Xen. "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Go."

The boy scuttled off in an instant, and Xen returned to her work.

"Qano'Zaeln nar _Carta_ vas _Moreh_," Kobol recited for her. She forgot the name instantly.

"Why did I accept him again?"

"You enjoyed his gift, ma'am," Kobol said. "A treatise on using spectrophotometric analysis of starlight to find inactive relays, along with a list of possible candidates."

Xen said nothing. She remembered the boy's work. It was solid. He must have had talent. That would have to be good enough. So long as he could produce good research, he could be as awkward and mewling as he liked. She had too much on her mind to worry about him. She had the _Alarei _to worry about. She leant back into the geth's torso as the message started over again. Kobol stood silently behind her, watching the screens.

"Rael was a fool," Xen mused. She dabbed off her welder and moved to the next panel. "So convinced the key to defeating the geth is in a gun somewhere. So convinced he had to study them in a fair fight. This was an utterly predictable way for his experiments to end."

She was lying. She had never guessed Rael would be so careless. Natal'Hazt - the quarian in the message - had been one of Xen's employees, a plant in one of Rael's most prestigious lab ships, and her reports had confirmed week after week what Xen had suspected all along - that Rael was testing weapons on live geth - but she had never imagined he would let them _arm _themselves. She had little good to say about Rael'Zorah, but _that_was foolishness that shewould have thought him above.

Rael was supposed to be a genius. It was disgusting to see such stupidity from the second smartest quarian on the Fleet (after her, naturally). On his good days she might have even believed they were equals. Really, they would be perfect for each other if only Rael understood her plans with the geth. He wanted to shoot them all to death, to waste them.

Or he _had _wanted that, anyway. Now he was almost certainly dead.

"We should tell the Conclave about this," Kobol said. He was nervous. She could hear the way he wrought his gloved fingers together. "They will want to hear this."

"No," Xen said. Kobol was acting-captain on the _Moreh _for as long as she was admiral, and he had represented her on the Conclave with skill and tact, but she did not trust the rest of the fleet's squabbling captains for a millisecond.

"The Admiralty Board, then," Kobol said.

"I am on the Admiralty board," she reminded him. She gestured to the generator on the wall. "Change the voltage on the generator to one point one two." Kobol obeyed, operating the machine with rote familiarity. She returned her gaze to the geth and watched the displays on her helmet count down as the voltage dropped.

The geth's torso gave a jerk. Stripped of its armored outer layers, Xen could see the dozens of finger-width motivators shift, watch the glowing blue processing arrays blink off and on as power flows rearranged. It was amusing, really, that the geth had reflexes at all. The ancient quarians had instilled more than a few lifelike qualities into them, and to hear most geth researchers talk, they were only getting more pronounced as the years went by. The geth were not inert pieces of steel. They changed, they evolved, they learned.

They responded when you poked them.

Now if she could just get it to transfer itself into a server without killing itself.

"Admiral. Ma'am," Kobol started again. "If the geth _have _taken the _Alarei_, it's not inconceivable tha-"

"It _is _inconceivable," Xen interrupted. "Our agent's counts put the total geth equivalents on the ship at less than forty platforms." Tali'Zorah had been busy, but Natal had assured her of the count time and time again. "They would all be standard light platforms, small enough to be carried. Average twenty-eight geth nodes per platform gives no more than eleven hundred twenty nodes. Just enough to hold a conversation. Not enough to pilot a ship. The _Alarei_isn't going anywhere." She stared at Kobol. "We can report it after I've decided what I want to do about it."

Kobol said nothing to that, and Xen did not want him to. She peered back into the cavern of the geth's exposed chest, triple-checking all of her connections. Natal'Hazt's dying message continued to cycle in the quiet.

"The Admiralty board will order the ship destroyed," she said absently, reclaiming her microwelder and returning to work on the geth's wiry spine. "Along with everything on it. We mustn't allow that to happen before we've had a chance to salvage what we can." The geth's neck craned down to watch her hands with its empty eye. "I don't want this news spreading."

"Ma'am, we should at least inform Natal'Hazt's mate and child. The ones she mentioned in the message. We owe it to them to tell them what happened."

Xen arched her brow, incredulous. It really was amazing, sometimes, how stupid everyone but her managed to be. "You don't think they'll figure it out when she never comes back?"

Kobol was quiet. He stared uncomfortably at his feet.

Xen was about to order him away in disgust.

Then a thought occurred.

She remembered Doran'Hazt from Natal's dossier. Six circuits, one rad old. Born _nar Vesta_, began his pilgrimage at two circuits, four rads, joined the _Quib Quib _under then-captain Zaal'Koris with rhodium deposit telemetry data. Resided on the _Quib-Quib_working as a hydroponics engineer. He and Natal had been separated for years – perhaps he wouldn't care about her death in the least.

But he did have Admiral Koris' ear. And Koris would never let them fire on a ship full of geth without a fight.

It would be best if the rumors reached him first, before Gerrel or Raan had a chance to group. Koris was a simpering fool at the best of times, but he had a surprising tenacity to have kept up with Rael's political juggernaut for so many years. Without Rael around he would drown the others in bureaucracy.

And the _Alarei _would be safe.

She turned to Kobol. "Go find him, then. Tell him everything."

"...everything, Ma'am?" he asked, surprised.

Xen favored him with an uncharacteristic smile. "Yes, everything. As you said, they deserve to know."

Kobol's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Xen was already buried in the geth's torso again.

"_Now_, Kobol," she said, waving a hand behind her. "Doran'Hazt and his son Jora. Go tell them."

Kobol bowed. "Yes, ma'am," he intoned, and rushed off to do her bidding.

The silence returned. Xen thought best with her hands. She worked in the quiet, the geth her only witness.

The two of them listened as the message continued to play.

* * *

_17 years previously…_

_–_

No matter the context, the ship's captain was in charge. It did not matter if the ship was a vast liveship like the _Golgi _or a tiny speck of a vessel like the _Moreh, _even a visiting Admiral was only second-in-command to the captain.

Captain Zoar'Mal vas _Moreh_ cut an impressive enough figure in his gray-and-black hood and neatly polished suit. He was in charge. He would decide whether or not her Pilgrimage gift was sufficient, he would decide whether or not to accept her or send her back out into the galaxy to try again. And if he _did _accept, he would be her new captain, above her and responsible for her in every way.

And yet even as he scrutinized her, weighing her fate, Xen only had eyes for Rael.

Rael'Zorah vas _Rayya_, Vice Admiral to Admiral Gennd'Tega vas _Konal_ and Special Project's Chief of Research, sat next to the captain, his eyes still scanning the datapad she'd handed them. If Captain Zoar'Mal looked impressive, Rael looked positively _gorgeous_, shining and polished in unmarked black with his only conceit to fashion a thin strip of the Zorah purple ringed into his hood. Just being next to him made her feel small. Stupid. _Normal._ She had loved him from afar for years, but she'd never imagined he'd look so _powerful. _On the _Moreh _Rael was Zoar's guest, but as the captain had stiffly (and quite without necessity) explained to her when she'd entered, more than half of the _Moreh's _crew were doing research for one of the Vice Admiral's projects – one could hardly hope to succeed on the _Moreh _without Rael's support.

Rael had not so much as looked at Xen since he'd sat down, but she had hardly been able to drag her eyes away.

"I admit I'm concerned," the captain was saying, calling Xen's gaze back to the present. "Seven months is an unusually short Pilgrimage."

Xen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I did what I needed to do, Captain. As I believe my gift attests."

"I will leave that to wiser minds than I to decide," the captain said, gesturing towards Rael. "It is your previous captain's words that worry me. For your abilities she has nothing but praise. But your attitude. Your maturity. Your ability to work as part of a crew. She believes you had some growing up to do."

"I did it," Xen insisted, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"The _Moreh _is a small ship, Daro," the captain continued. "The crew must work together. Must be a team in all things. An uncommitted crewmember will struggle to survive. You will not be able to thrive alone. That is what your pilgrimage was intended to impress on you."

Xen nodded, but it was a lie. In truth, her pilgrimage had proven quite the opposite - she was fantastically effective on her own. Nobody to interfere with her plans, nobody expecting her to care about foolish things. She had come to Bekenstein without a credit to her name and hellbent on finishing as quickly as possible. Most quarians joined technology firms or other technical work, but the idea of working on the projects given to her by dim-witted turians or humans did not appeal to her.

The stares she drew just walking down the street had given her the answer. Quarians of either sex were _exotic_, especially to the wealthy humans that had come to dominate Bekenstein, and many were willing to pay lucrative prices for her time. She'd found a high class xeno-escort service, taught herself a few human languages, and made more in a month than most quarian pilgrims made in a year. Sure, it had required enduring some phenomenally boring human dates (the yowling the humans called _opera _was especially popular on Bekenstein), but every once in a while she'd actually met someone interesting.

Better yet, every day on the job meant a week or two of mild sickness, weeks she could spend in her employer's luxurious quarantine bubble working on her research and eating the gourmet turian food she bought with her leftover money.

"I learned a great deal on my pilgrimage," Xen insisted, "short though it was."

The captain eyed the datapad in his hand with some disdain. His eyes looked dubious. "Working, alone, in what was effectively a brothel."

"Researching, yes," Xen confirmed, unashamed.

"Not a typical pilgrimage."

Rael finally spoke up. "Irrelevant," he grunted, eyes not leaving his datapad. "This is not typical research." He gestured to the screen. "Who cares how she amused herself in between? It's hardly your business, even as her captain."

The captain's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Rael didn't seem to expect him to say anything either. He finally looked up, staring at Xen. "This is phenomenal work," he said, voice even.

Xen felt giddy. "Thank you, Vice Admiral." She had worked long and hard on it. Her treatise on mass balance projector engine efficiency, half a hundred equations and illustrations tracing out proposed modifications for the engine systems used by the liveships. It was built atop previous work Rael'Zorah himself had done for his own pilgrimage, the data that had gotten him accepted onto the highly-prestigious _Rayya._

Rael set the datapad down. "This is a fine gift. You could buy your way onto any ship in the fleet for this data. _Any _captain with half a mind would accept in a heartbeat." Captain Zoar's eyes narrowed behind his helmet. "Why the _Moreh?_It's a dreadfully dull ship."

"I want to do research," she said. "On the g-" She stopped, noting how Rael's eyes widened behind his visor. "On VI warfare," she amended. "The _Moreh _is small but it was converted from a turian communications ship in galactic standard year 2170. It is ideally suited to research on computationally-expensive VI simulations." That was true.

"You could join another ship and convince their captain to invest in computing resources," Rael pointed out.

_But then I wouldn't be with you._ "I could," Xen said. "But I confess. I _do _prefer to work alone. A life of research on a small ship will suit me."

"Collaboration is the heart of research."

"_Thinking_is the heart of research," Xen insisted. "And I think best when it is silent."

Rael was silent for a moment, but she could see the smile in his eyes. He gave her a short nod and rose from his seat. "She has my support, Captain Zoar," he said, voice curt as he handed the captain Xen's research. With that, he pivoted on his heel and stalked away. "If you accept her, please assign her to the simulation team on deck three."

–

The _Moreh _was a dark, lonely ship. It had never intended to play host to more than a few dozen turians, and its life support systems were unambitious to match. Half of the ship was unlit but for the great glowing bays of computing towers. When Captain Zoar had given her the tour of the living quarters, even those had been drab and cheerless, too hot by half and with ceilings so low she had to duck her helmet.

Still, she was almost light-headed with excitement when her waiting paid off and she finally caught Rael'Zorah leaving the lab. His omni-tool cast long shadows across the hallway that twisted as he walked. He very nearly ran into her, until she cleared her throat and he looked up from his work.

"Daro'Xen," he said.

"He accepted me," she reported, smiling.

Rael nodded. "Daro'Xen vas _Moreh_, then. Congratulations."

Xen's stomach did flips. She was talking to _Rael. Zorah. _Somehow she found her tongue. "I was hoping you had a moment to discuss the VI project with me."

Rael turned back to his work. "Not now. Team three's manager is Kala'Reten. Ask her for the relevant readings." He made as if to step past her, but she moved into his path.

"I've already read them," she said. "And I know it's not about VI's. Not really. It's about the geth."

Rael's face gave nothing away, but he did look at her. She pushed on. "Further, I know that it's not a good approach. VI's don't accurately simulate geth behavior. We both know it's a dead end way to study them."

Rael's eyes narrowed. "And how do _you_know that?"

"I did the math. On Bekenstein. The engine thing was just a side project." She called up a document on her omni-tool and displayed it proudly. _This _was the real reason she needed to be here. The _Moreh _was a dump of a ship, but it was the closest thing Rael had to a legitimate geth research project. It was her stepping stone into his _illegitimate _geth research projects.

Rael stared at her document without comment. He did not tell her it put her pilgrimage gift to shame (it did), nor that it was the most comprehensive and insightful treatise on geth computation in almost a decade (it was). She knew he knew it. She didn't need him to say it.

"You gave up hope on the VI simulations a long time ago," Xen accused, grinning behind her mask. "Which means you moved on to something better_._" She stared at him, daring him to deny it.

He did not deny it.

"What do you want from me?" he asked finally.

"You moved onto something better," she repeated, closing the distance between them. "I want to work on that." She pressed up against him, staring up into his mask. He was twice her age but still unyielding as iron muscle, like leaning up against a wall. "And on _you_."

Rael's eyes narrowed. "I have a wife. And a daughter."

She'd expected that. The great Rael'Zorah would hardly betray his honor without some proper convincing. She was undeterred. "Not on this ship," she said. "You run research projects on eleven ships. Do you ever even _visit _the _Rayya _anymore?"

"Infrequently," he admitted.

Xen grinned victoriously. "Then don't tell me you aren't tempted. I'm as smart as you are," she purred. It was true. She was sure of it. She'd always been sure of it. She'd spent her life so lonely, so _bored _with other quarians. They were so… stupid. But Rael was like her. A kindred spirit. Maybe the _only _kindred spirit. He had to feel the same way.

But Rael backed away from her so abruptly she almost fell. He stepped over her and continued his way down the hall, his omni-tool back to life on his arm.

Xen stared after him, frowning.

"I will contact you should an opening become available," he said, not looking back.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

Natal'Hazt's dying words had passed fifty six hundred and eight times since Kobol had left her, and still Xen had not eaten or slept. Her eyes burned, her body ached, her stomach demanded food, but she felt none of it.

She stared at the geth.

It had fallen still but for the steady serpentining of its neck as it still tried in vain to see its surroundings. Geth were dreadfully stupid when cut off from one another.

And yet smart enough to beat her, apparently. Even hacked apart and disfigured, even with every single damage sensor disconnected, even hooked up into a server salvaged from a geth node, the machine remained stubbornly planted in its own mutilated platform. No matter how Xen prodded, no matter how she disguised it, she simply could not get it to upload itself onto another server.

Xen had long known that Koris – not Rael – had the right of it. The geth _were _people, intelligent and capable of learning. They had evolved into much more sophisticated machines than most quarians realized. But they were still _property _and the prospect of being outmaneuvered by an appliance was more than a little frustrating. It was beginning to try her patience. It was consuming time she should be using to prepare for the situation with the _Alarei._

By now the rumors of the _Alarei's _takeover would be spreading. They'd be full of misinformation, of course, but it would be enough to get both sides moving. Koris' legions would be rallying the Idennites, the reformists, the pro-conclaves, the pacifists, the xenos. All the little groups chafing under the three hundred year old martial law of the Admiralty Board threw their lot in with Koris' famously anti-military politics. On the opposite side the influential Zorah and Gerrel families - and, more importantly, the bulk of the heavy fleet - would be rumbling with preparations to defend the status quo. What was really only a very small threat - a single research vessel lost to the geth - would be twisted and dragged into every outstanding disagreement in quarian politics before long. Very soon it would turn into a zoo that even Xen would not be able to predict.

Every second that passed, the _Alarei _slipped farther from her reach. She had to turn things before she lost it.

And yet as the time slipped away still she found herself tinkering with her geth.

"This is a waste of time," she snarled to herself as she worked, her fingers fiddling with the charge sinks on the geth's power supply in yet another attempt to trick the geth to go into an emergency backup sequence. She adjusted the generator leads for the thousandth time and stared expectantly at the geth as the lights in its chest started to dim.

The geth craned its neck as if to stare at her. Even without its eyes, even without its _face_, somehow it looked taunting.

Xen shook her head and turned the power back up. "I am running out of patience for you, little geth," she said, rising to her feet. She was sore from sitting for so many hours, her lower back and thighs a dull throb, and she stretched her long legs, rolling her ankles until the stiffness dissipated. Her stomach roared. The geth's neck followed her as she dug through the workdesk drawers looking for a spare ration bar – hadn't Kobol said he would leave one? There was nothing. And by her own orders her research vessels did not receive food shipments from the Liveships for fear of someone stumbling into one of her geth labs - she would have to take a shuttle to one of the larger craft and eat there. That would take hours.

She gave a frustrated snort and plopped back into her seat next to the geth.

It was ridiculous, sometimes, how she had to hide her work. She was the great Daro'Xen, the smartest quarian on the fleet, and yet she had to starve herself as a precaution against anybody knowing just what she did with all her intelligence.

Everyone knew that Rael'Zorah did things that bent the law, but he'd always managed to get away with it. Even before he was made an Admiral, he'd been beloved. A few circuits ago he'd been caught working with projector-shielded high energy eezo cores, long since banned on the flotilla for their wastefulness and poor safety records, and the Board had given him a warning and handed him a new research vessel on which to continue his experiments. But if she ever got caught doing the same... it would be a very different story.

And now one of his ships had been taken over by geth. If the truth ever came out - if it was ever known that he had brought active geth aboard on purpose - he'd surely be tried for treason. The thought was simultaneously revolting and delicious. A treason charge, maybe the only charge Rael's popularity couldn't save him from, maybe the only chance Xen would ever have to get him exiled in disgrace and inherit all of his research projects.

And yet he was just going to die before anyone knew what he had done. The Admiralty Board would order the _Alarei _destroyed and Rael would be remembered as a hero and all his projects would pass on to his equally insipid daughter.

Somehow Rael always won. Even when he had to die to do it.

Xen stared at the blind geth. Its shutters blinked calmly. "Rael'Zorah wasn't smart enough to disassemble those platforms first," she observed, running a hand down the shoulder stump of the geth's left arm. "He should be exiled for his stupidity alone." The kinemat sensors in the fingertips of her gloves translated the smoothness of the geth armor as she traced up its neck to its head.

The geth had a sort of beauty to them. The ancient quarians had been masters. Geniuses. Far and away greater than the squabbling fools that had become of their race now. At the end of the day, it would be fear that would destroy the _Alarei _and any secrets Rael may have discovered. Fear of the geth. Fear that the synthetic ghosts that had dogged the flotilla for so long would somehow spread, somehow kill them all like they had killed Rael.

In quarian politics, it all came back to the geth. They were feared or pitied or hated. But they were never understood. Even Tali'Zorah, the so-called geth expert, had had nothing of value to say about them when she'd returned from her pilgrimage two years past. She'd come with much to say about how the platforms had changed, where their weak spots were, what kinds of weapons they'd acquired. But nothing on _what _they were. On how they thought.

Xen had expected that from a Zorah.

If only the quarians would take the time to learn about what the geth really were they would learn that they were not to be feared. Xen was so close to unlocking the secrets of their gestalt. _So close_to understanding how they linked. With Rael's resources - with those forty geth platforms he had most of all - she could learn so much. Enough, maybe, to bring the geth back under control. Restore them to where they belonged.

She cradled the geth's head. It was so fragile in her hand, so light. Nothing like the heavy mechanical monsters the quarians liked to imagine in their myths. Forty geth platforms. That was all Rael had. Forty geth platforms couldn't take over a _single _real quarian ship, let alone a Flotilla of thousands. And yet they would be destroyed out of fear and ignorance all the same.

Xen stared at the blind geth and shook her head. "How dearly I wish the fleet could see you now, little geth." But that would get her exiled. Only Rael could escape a treason charge, and only because he was dead - nobody would risk going onto the _Alarei _to find proof of his crimes when he wasn't even alive to be charged.

Unless...

Xen released the geth and bolted to her feet.

_Unless he wasn't the one being charged._

She left the geth, Natal's message still calling out into the dark.

* * *

–

The suit was supposed to stop everything, but somehow Gerrel could still smell burning flesh.

The outer airlock clamped shut as the last of the marines limped past its threshold and collapsed in a heap in the corridor. _Neema _crewmembers bustled to help them, each hooked up to an external oxygen scrubber as was policy when emergency docking necessitated skipping the usual sterilization protocols. Triage was done quickly, immuno-boosters and sedatives injected and the injured marines carried off on long stretchers while those still capable of standing were helped out of their combat kits and put in a line to be inspected by medics.

Eight marines returning, three of them shot.

Gerrel swallowed heavily. They'd sent twelve to the _Alarei_. Four more fine marines lost in the line of duty.

He shook that thought away, muscling his way through the throng of medics and volunteers to find Commander Noazza'Raan, who stood in the center barking orders and looking winded but unhurt. "Commander!" Gerrel shouted. "Report!"

Noazza gave a sharp salute. "Admiral. Intelligence was confirmed. The whole ship is swarming with flashlights. At least eighteen platforms, maybe more."

"Any survivors?"

Noazza seemed to wilt for a moment. "Negative. Sir. We saw none."

Gerrel felt his heart drop. Rael was dead. His friend, the great Admiral Rael'Zorah was dead. Gerrel had been a soldier all his life – he'd had friends die. He'd had mentors die. His elder son had been killed by geth on a scouting mission almost a decade ago. But Rael… he'd always seemed invulnerable.

He'd heard the news from one of his commanders first. It had been almost offhand, and at first Gerrel had assumed it was a confused rumor. Rael had a tendency to disappear for long stretches of time, burying himself in his work. When his mate Ykala had died a few years back it had only gotten worse, and from time to time his absence would spawn rumors that he had been killed, or he was leading an elite team to retake Rannoch, or how he was in secret dealings with the batarians.

Gerrel hadn't given it much thought until he'd heard it again, and again, and again, and so by the time he'd met with the Admirals to hear Koris confirm it with the help of sensor data and manifests Xen had managed to lift off of one of Rael's supply shuttles, he'd known it was no fluke - The _Alarei _had gone dark. Rael'Zorah and his crew were missing, presumed dead. It had killed Gerrel to hear it from Koris, but at least the suitwetter had had the decency to look respectful as he announced his rival's death – Xen had been positively singsong.

Gerrel didn't need to be a political genius to know bad times were coming. Oh, there would be trouble without Rael.

"I'm sorry, sir," Noazza said, tapping Gerrel on the shoulderpad with a quiet understanding in which only soldiers could share. "The geth were waiting in the cargo level," he said. "We took casualties and I deemed it best to retreat."

Gerrel looked at him, blinking. "…You didn't make it to the research levels?"

Noazza shook his head. "No sir." He paused. "As I said, the geth had reinforced the cargo level. Without heavier loadouts-"

Gerrel felt a stirring in his chest. If Rael was alive, he wouldn't be in the cargo bay. He'd be in the lab, defending whatever genius technology he'd been cooking up from the flashlights. There was still hope. He grabbed Noazza by the shoulders. "See your wounded to the medics, Commander, then get the rest of your marines ready for a second foray. I will get you your weapons. We will _not _let the geth have Admiral Zorah."

Noazza gave another sharp salute. "No sir we won't!"

Gerrel turned and rushed down the hall. There was still hope. Rael and his scientists could still be alive. Rael had saved him more times than he could count. It was time for Gerrel to repay the favor.

He would lead the rescue himself.

* * *

_34 years previously…_

_–_

The turians were naked. Or at least looked that way to Han'Gerrel nar _Kestus_, soon to be vas _Potabh_. They bustled about the station, unaware of their nakedness, ungloved hands and unsealed necklines. Those few that had helmets wore them on their shelled backs, revealing their vulnerable mouths and even their _eyes _to the filthy air. Ships took off and landed, dozens every hour bound for the Citadel or Omega or Union space or any of a thousand different worlds, each adding their own mix of potentially-pathogen-laden air into the mix.

And they were _breathing_it.

Filthy brutes.

"Oromb System," Rael'Zorah nar _Kestus_read off the screen next to him, apparently uninterested in the turians. "There's a mining transport leaving in two standard hours, dock eight. It should serve your purposes." He turned to fix his taller friend with an even glance. "You remember what I told you?"

Gerrel tore his eyes away from the aliens. "You worry too much, Rael," Gerrel insisted, slapping his friend on his polished shoulderpad. "I'm not _that _stupid."

Rael's glowing eyes narrowed.

Gerrel sighed. "Yes, Rael, I remember," he said, relenting. "Four potential nodes spread across Oromb III, all subsurface. I need to find ground penetrating sonar equipment to verify. Sell to Marowolar in exchange for three quarters of the exploratory coring samples. Ship to Sotol to wait for the Flotilla to pass by."

"Make sure your telemetry is accurate to a resolution of four meters or better," Rael warned, "or Marowolar won't be interested. Elcor are slow but they're not stupid. They know platinum isn't so rare they can waste their time with imprecise data."

"Yes, yes, I get it. You _can _worry about your _own _Pilgrimage, you know."

Rael shrugged. "_I_don't have a time limit," he said, looking back to the screen of ship departures. Rael had decided to spend his pilgrimage on the turian homeworld studying 'field resonance thrusters' or some such technological magic Gerrel had never heard of. "Palaven will wait."

Gerrel smiled and wrapped an arm around Rael's shoulder. "I do appreciate the help, Rael."

Rael didn't look at him. "I _still_think she's a bad influence. Certainly not worth rushing your pilgrimage for," he whined. "You could come with me. Get used to the feel of an actual planet beneath your boots."

Gerrel shook his head. Rael could keep his planets. Gerrel was a spacer. "You're just jealous that even with all your brains I got a girl before you," he said, grinning behind his mask. He had yet to link suits with Nira'Vael nar _Kestus_ but all the same knew she was the one for him. Thinking of her, he couldn't help but smile. She had started her pilgrimage a few weeks before as the fleet had passed through Hades Gamma, and had promised to find a suitable gift and join the crew of the _Potabh _as quickly as she could.

He would do the same. The _Potabh _was modest but sported an impressive marine corps for him to join, and Nira's cousin had promised them the ship had more than enough space for two new crewmates. It would work perfectly.

And with Rael's help, Gerrel would finish his pilgrimage in record time and be free to marry.

"You're rather young, aren't you?"

Gerrel shook his head, shouldering the pack of supplies he'd been gifted for his journeys higher onto his back. "So says Rael'Zorah," he said, "the boy who flew a gunship into a batarian slaveship's gun battery."

"It worked, didn't it?" Rael asked, petulant.

"That it did, friend," Gerrel agreed. "That it did." For their actions Gerrel and Rael had been called heroes and fools and everything in between. They'd been punished for the loss of the _Yaksa_(Rael's decision to ram the batarians' mass drivers saved the day, but it had ruined the gunship beyond repair) with weeks of forced labor, but they'd also gotten to meet the Admiralty Board. Admiral Alyey herself had placed the medal badges of valor on their chests.

But more importantly, they'd become fast friends. There was nothing like ripping a breach into an alien ship and watching the crew tumble out to freeze in space to bring two quarians together.

Different as they were, they'd been inseparable ever since.

But now it was time to separate. The board flickered as it updated, and Gerrel's ship, a mining vessel called the _Corimbus_, had entered the liftoff queues. Gerrel still had to haggle his way aboard – he'd brought a few odds and ends to barter with, and even if that didn't work, he was a beast as quarians went and could pull his weight loading cargo. He'd find a way. Still, there was no time to waste.

"About time for me to take my leave," Gerrel observed.

Rael held out a hand to shake. "May your air flow clean, Han'Gerrel nar _Kestus_."

Gerrel ignored the hand, wrapping Rael in a crushing hug that lifted his smaller friend from the deck. "Teach those birds a thing or two about engine magic, Rael'Zorah nar _Kestus_. I'll see you when you get back." He released Rael, tossed him a last, encouraging nod, and turned to head to dock eight.

"Remember, you have three months!" Rael called after him. "If you're not done by the time the fleet passes Sotol you'll be stuck!"

"Three months," Gerrel called back.

* * *

_Presently..._

_–_

Of course, it did not end up taking three months. Or even thirty-three months. Gerrel had been too slow, and by the time he'd acquired the data he needed, mining rights to Oromb-III's platinum deposits had already been sold to a volus conglomerate.

In the end, not only did Gerrel miss the fleet as it passed by Sutol once, but again on its return journey, a whole galactic circuit later.

All told, Gerrel's pilgrimage ended up taking _eight years_, returning to the fleet as it passed through the Shrike Abyssal. Eight years of running with a mercenary group, eight years of fighting alien wars, eight years of speaking alien languages, eight years of saving every paycheck to buy a few more guns, a few more armor plates, a few more shield capacitors, or grenades, or rockets, or military omni-tools. He knew it wasn't a creative gift, but it was all he knew, and by the time he had returned to the fleet he could equip a small army with the gear he'd acquired.

And so he did not feel guilty in the slightest raiding the _Neema's_ armory. Technically all he and the other Admirals had convinced the Conclave to allow was a small exploratory team – twelve marines to assess the situation on the _Alarei_ – but he was Admiral of the Heavy Fleet and the Conclave could go to hell if they thought he was going to wait for further hearings.

He was _not _about to let his best friend die without a fight.

If only Rael had told him what he'd been doing on the _Alarei_. Normally Gerrel wouldn't ask, and he hadn't this time either. Rael was very protective of his work, very secretive of his results until he was sure he had something, and Gerrel's bumbling interference (or anyone's, really) only hampered him.

But there were two topics on which Gerrel felt he had an authority, even over Rael – languages (he took it as a matter of great personal pride that his long pilgrimage had left him fluent in eight tongues across five species, while Rael knew only three) and killing geth. And if Rael's research was something that the geth wanted enough to sneak infiltrators into his ship, Gerrel thought there was no one better suited to defend it than himself.

Of course, Rael would probably disagree. In fact, Gerrel half-expected that even if he _could _rescue his friend, all he would get for his trouble is a great deal of lecturing from the Conclave about abusing his power and an even greater deal of lecturing from Rael himself about risk-taking.

Still, it was no decision at all. Rael had been there for him. Two and a half decades ago when he'd finally had enough of the mercenary life and had stepped onto the _Potabh_, Rael had been the one waiting to invite him to join the _Neema's _prestigious marine corps. Admiral Rael had bestowed him with his General's mark on behalf of the Board, and then when Admiral Gossit had died, Rael had helped swear him in as Admiral of the Heavy Fleet. After his divorce Rael had helped fend off the political mudslingers. Rael had saved his ass a thousand times.

If he could repay just one of those he'd die a happy quarian.

He picked his way through the armory, rows upon rows of eclectic weaponry his ship had acquired over the decades. Much of it was old quarian gear from Rannoch, repaired and re-repaired countless times over the years, but there were also fine turian guns and cheap volus knockoffs, incendiaries from Khar'shan and human-made polonium rounds, tracers and shields and grenades and medical supplies and every other piece of military sundry a rescue team could need. It had been years since Gerrel had carried a firearm (Raan insisted it was inappropriate for an Admiral – _he_thought Admiralty was reason to carry even more guns) but when he hefted a well-used carbine like the one he used to favor it settled into his grip like it had never left. He hooked it onto an eyelet on his suit and moved on.

He had to move fast. The Conclave wouldn't like him rushing off with a shuttle full of troops, to say nothing of his fellow Admirals. He'd already sent a message to the _Neema's _marine commander's personal omni-tool to gather what forces he could and rendezvous with Noazza. He trusted his commanders with his life – they'd been his loyal lieutenants not terribly long ago – but even so, word would get out fast.

He slipped a few grenades and an old-style rail launcher into his pockets, along with a handful of medigel packets. The _Neema _only had four GIGO transmitters ready for action and he took two, slinging them over his shoulders with an _oof. _Last but not least he found a shield projector and hooked it onto its jack on his lower back. His suit's shields shuddered with an audible whine as they struggled against the projector's amperage.

When he was a younger quarian he had strode into battle with enough armor to slow a batarian and he'd thought nothing of it. Back in his mercing days he'd even taken to carrying a krogan shield projector – it weighed half as much as he did but enemies never expected a quarian to soak so much fire and often overlooked him until it was too late. But those days were long behind him. He wasn't young anymore, and moving in armor had become a chore. He had to suppress a grunt as he sidled out the armory door, locking it behind him with a wave of his omni-tool.

He very nearly ran into Raan. The Admiral stood outside the door, arms crossed across her chest and eyes narrowed accusingly behind her visor. She cleared her throat. "Han…" Her tone was warning.

Gerrel frowned and pushed past her. She was the last person he wanted to deal with now, after the awful things she had said when the Board had convened the previous day to discuss their options. Still, Raan was sharper than her passivity suggested, and he knew there was no point pretending she hadn't caught him. "Don't speak to me," he snarled. "I'm going, and that's final." He turned down the corridor towards the lifts to the airlock bays. He knew the Conclave wouldn't like it, but the Conclave could go pinch their airhoses if they thought that would stop him.

Raan followed behind him. "You are needed in the antechamber."

"I'm needed on the _Alarei," _Gerrel grunted, refusing to look back at her. "And you don't get to order me around on my own ship. If you don't want to help me save Rael, fine, but don't ask me to sit around doing nothing."

"This is Captain Kol'varra's ship and I'm _not _asking," Raan said, and her usually gentle voice was hard as silari steel. Gerrel stopped. "You are needed in the antechamber," she repeated.

"I'm an Admiral too," Gerrel reminded her.

"Then act like one," Raan shot back. "Koris and Xen are waiting for us."

Gerrel finally turned to look at her, eyes wide in surprise. "_Here? _On the _Neema?_"

Raan nodded. "Along with half of the Conclave, if you do not hurry. We have decisions to make and you will join us or you will be tried for treason at Rael's side."

Gerrel stared daggers at her. He had never hated the soft-spoken Admiral more than he did at that moment.

–

Gerrel had only been _vas Neema _for a few years, but he'd spent most of his life with the marines on the ship and it felt like home. When he and Nira had split after the whole asari fiasco, it had been only natural for him to resign his _vas Potabh _name and join the _Neema _in word as well as in deed. The _Neema _was an old turian ship scavenged from a scrapyard on Orama almost a century before, and while it hadn't been pretty when new, it was positively hideous now, scarred and limping. Still, its armor had held strong and it was one of only a handful of proper warships in the Fleet, well-armed with spacious hangars and facilities for hundreds of troops.

It also had the distinction of being one of only a few ships in the Flotilla with a room large enough to hold an assembly.

The antechamber was a relic of the ship's past life as a turian troop cruiser, part of an expansive lecture hall the Hierarchy officers had used to teach recruits. On most days it was an unqualified waste of space, but captain Kol'Varra had left it untouched, its original tiered podiums and seating rows well-polished by turian backsides.

As Raan had promised, half of the room was full by the time they got there. Gerrel recognized a dozen or so Conclave representatives, but most were just curious crewmembers of the _Neema_. A few dozen _Rayya_quarians stood in a corner holding holo images of Rael on their omni-tools, while others typed feverishly into datapads. Koris and Xen were waiting at the podium.

"Fine work, Raan," Xen said, voice all smiles. "I see you've managed to catch our illustrious Admiral Gerrel before he managed to kill himself too."

Gerrel ignored her. "What do you want, Raan?"

Raan had taken her place at the highest podium, where the highest ranking turian officer would have stood to look down on his students. "The Conclave has demanded we make arrangements for our trials."

Gerrel almost walked out of the room. "This is ridiculous," he snarled. "_Now?_Can we wait until Rael's body has cooled before we start dragging his name down?"

"Rael'Zorah's trial will wait until we have ascertained the extent of his crimes," Koris agreed, sniffing. He was suffering yet another infection, and the detox pumps in his suit whined. "But Tali'Zorah's crimes ar-"

"What crimes?" Gerrel demanded. "I have yet to see a _shred _of reason why we should subject a grieving girl to this nonsense." They had been arguing over this very point for most of the previous day, and Gerrel had only grown more and more furious as he'd heard his fellow Admirals hem and haw at what was – to him – a very simple matter. Koris he understood – his political motive in dragging Tali down was obvious – but Xen and _Raan? _Raan, who had been like a surrogate mother to Tali since Ykala had died?

It was one thing to refuse Tali's request for a quarian crew for her mission with Shepard. It was another to keep her father's predicament a secret from her. But to try to include her in treason charges against Rael that were shaky to begin with? The fact that they were considering at all was lunacy of the highest order.

And yet no one seemed to think so but him. "Then you have not been looking carefully, Admiral Gerrel," Xen said, as if she were talking to a child. "I _did _send you the _Alarei's _manifests, did I not? I'm sure if you peruse them again you will note Tali'Zorah's name next to nearly every shipment." She was right. At their last session Gerrel had tried to argue that her name on the manifests could have been a placeholder, that Rael had used it as a gesture of affection, but it had sounded lame even to his ears. Rael was not known for his sentimentality, nor for keeping anything less than sterling records.

"I don't have time for this," Gerrel snarled, not wanting to revisit that argument, not wanting to see Raan stand by again while he got verbally whipped for trying to help the Zorahs. "I'm going to save Rael."

"And risk _two _Admirals over the stupidity of only one?" Xen asked.

Gerrel turned back to her. "I have never lost a marine on the ground," he boasted, taking a step towards the smug female, who didn't so much as flinch. "Never. In every mission I have ever served as squad leader for. I have _never _left someone behind."

Xen was unimpressed. "'tis a pity Rael did not allow you on his ship, then, isn't it?"

"He didn't allow you on either, you harpy. You are not going to let him die just so you can get your hands on his work."

"Oh, I'll get it either way," she promised, sounding very proud of herself. She shrugged. "But go ahead, retrieve his corpse if it makes you feel better."

"Enough!" Raan snapped. "There is a bigger concern than your petty fighting. In less than two hours, the Conclave intends to vote on a motion to have the _Alarei _destroyed." She stared at Xen and Gerrel in turn, face severe behind her visor. "Can I assume neither of you wants to see that happen?"

Gerrel said nothing, but for once neither did Xen.

"Good," Raan said. "Then on that, at least, the four of us are in agreement. The _Alarei _must not be destroyed before we understand the situation better."

Gerrel couldn't hold his tongue. "What is there to understand? The geth attacked Rael's ship to destroy his research! We need to engage!"

Raan sighed, cradling her helmet in one gloved hand. "It is not that simple, Han."

"It's starting to look that way to me. It's starting to look like I'm the only one who wants to see Rael survive this. This is _Rael'Zorah_ we're talking about. An _Admiral._ And a damn sight better Admiral than any of us. Can the Fleet really spare him?" He pointed back the way he'd come. "Let. Me. Go. _GET. HIM."_

"Whatever our personal feelings on the matter, we cannot simply override the Conclave on your whim," Koris said, sniffing. "They've forbidden us to risk any more marines. We must honor their demands."

"Why!?" Gerrel demanded. "We're the Admirals! Apparently we can accuse anyone we want of treason, so long as it fits our goals."

"Koris is right, Han," Raan said, voice weary. "We have had this discussion before." It was true, they'd had it many times. Han'Gerrel's appointment to the Board had been fraught with difficulty. When Gossit had died and he'd been nominated, he'd been a decorated officer, well known for his teams' successes in a number of dangerous missions in geth space (and unknown for several others that had remained confidential), but many quarians – chief among them Zaal'Koris – had questioned his ability to work in a political setting where decisions had to be made with the entire species in mind. He was seen as too risk-taking, too headstrong, too unwilling to cooperate. Combined with accusations – after his divorce and his history with an asari merc had come to light – that he wasn't truly loyal to the quarian cause, Gerrel had not only almost not been sworn in as Admiral, he'd almost lost his position as General.

But in the end he'd made it to the Board anyway, and he'd spent every year since fighting the Conclave and the other Admirals over just how much deliberation was necessary before acting. Gerrel _hated _deliberation. Slowing down to discuss each move in a committee costed lives. He'd been censured by the Conclave three times for abusing his power as leader of the Heavy Fleet. Each time he maintained his position by a narrower margin. And each time he cared about maintaining it less.

Gerrel shook his head. "I can't believe you people," he spat, clearing his air filter with an angry _hiss._"You… traitors. Hypocrites. Trying Rael for treason while you think of every reason you can to leave him up there to die."

Then, all of a sudden, an idea occurred to Gerrel. A terrible, irresponsible idea. "What if I call Captain Kar'Danna?" he demanded. "What do you think the _Rayya's _crew would feel about this? Is their representative even here?" he gestured back at the crowd of onlookers.

He called forth his omni-tool.

"You want to start a civil war?" Raan asked, staring at him like he had gone insane.

"Maybe I do."

Koris, Xen, and Raan stared down at him with equal looks of trepidation. Captain Kar'Danna was a reasonable quarian, but his crew would not take Rael's treatment lightly. Half of the _Rayya's _population was in the Zorah family, and they championed Rael harder than anyone alive. And given that the _Rayya _was one of the mightiest ships in the entire Fleet…

"Gerrel… don't," Raan warned.

"I'm the Admiral of the Heavy Fleet. Last I checked, the _Rayya _was a heavy warship. Was mine to command. Am I wrong in that?"

He was not, and they knew it. "You are an Admiral," Raan tried. "Your loyalty is to the entire fleet, not to one person, no matter how important. Once we decide on the charges to levy against Tali'Zorah, we will summon her and include her in discussions about what to do about the _Alarei. _But for now, we have to convince the Conclave to keep the ship intact."

Gerrel just frowned and opened the channel. He'd lived through three censures already. A fourth wouldn't kill him. "Come in _Rayya. _This is Han'Gerrel, Admiral of the Heavy Fleet, calling for Captain Kar'Danna vas _Rayya_. Come in."

A voice came through his omni-tool, loud enough for them all to hear. "Go ahead."

"I have orders, effective immediately. The _Rayya _is to take position next to the _Alarei _and protect it from all harm. If _any_ ship should attempt to approach the _Alarei _without my express permission, you are ordered to open fire."

"Flotilla ships included?"

Gerrel nodded. "_Any _ship," he repeated.

There was a hesitation. Then: "Yes sir."

Gerrel closed the channel. Silence filled the room. The consequences would not be minor, but Gerrel did not care. He was tired of being an Admiral in name only. He would just have to see how effective the civvies' foot-stomping was against the _Rayya's _main cannons.

Raan shook her head, eyes wide behind her mask. "What… did you do?"

"I 'convinced' the Conclave," Gerrel snapped, staring up at them, face defiant. "Thanks to the geth, we live under martial law. Occasionally they see fit to remind us why."

* * *

_4 days later…_

_–_

The Admiralty Board had never been accused of being too sparing with its words, but somehow watching it from the outside made every rambling argument seem to take an eternity to Raan's mind. With her recused and Rael missing, the Board numbered only three, and yet Tali's trial went on for hours.

Tali looked very small, very far beneath her as Raan looked down on her from her podium above the other admirals. The girl seemed to grow every time Raan saw her, and yet today her shoulders were hunched as she stood next to the human, shrinking a little bit more with every word the admirals said. Behind her, half a hundred quarians watched in silence. Some looked on in pity and others with contempt, but none stepped in to help her.

Only Gerrel tried. The blustering admiral of the heavy fleet had his heart in the right place, Raan knew, but he was woefully underequipped to deal with Xen and Koris on his own. He tried to point out how very valuable Tali and her father had been to the fleet, how utterly spotless their records were. He reminded them that Tali had shown the galaxy a new face for their people in helping to defeat Saren and Sovereign. He reminded them that she was still very young, and scared, and grieving for her father.

But none of it mattered. Xen and Koris were simply smoother talkers, and they had the facts on their side. Xen paraded shipping manifests and security footage from one of the shuttles Rael had used. Koris dredged up every political mistake Rael had ever made. And no matter how loudly Gerrel ground his teeth, there was no way he was going to win.

And Tali got smaller and smaller.

Raan looked away to pick at a fraying seal on her fingertip and hoped for the thousandth time that she had done the right thing. Gerrel had been so furious when she'd told him she'd recused herself from Tali's trial, angrier than she'd ever seen him, and she feared that no matter what happened, she'd lost him as an ally.

But recusing herself was the only way to save Rael. Gerrel was too honest to believe that, to even understand that, but it was true.

Rael's only hope was for his daughter to be convicted of treason.

Raan had strained her brain for days trying to think of another way, but there was nothing. The Conclave would not allow the _Alarei _to survive the week, no matter what Gerrel did with his ships. They would never approve another assault on the ship after the deaths on Noazza's team, and if Gerrel forced the issue, they might have another Schism on their hands.

No. There was only one way anybody would step foot on the _Alarei _ever again without causing a civil war. Only one person could do it, and that one person was Tali. No matter the danger, the Conclave would not refuse her the chance to clear her name.

And if the ancestors were good and Rael or his team were still alive up there, Tali could bring them back. And even if Tali's good name was forever smeared by the treason charge, at least she would have her father back. Raan had seen Rael fall too far to believe the Zorahs' good names meant half so much as their survival.

It would work. It had to work. It was in everyone's best interests.

And yet it was hard not to feel like she was sending her surrogate niece to her death. She'd remembered Tali as the firebrand she was when she'd left on Pilgrimage, proud and unafraid, but the girl before her did not look ready to take on a ship full of synthetics at all.

Raan eyed her knuckles again. She could still take it back. She was arbiter. She could call for a recess and find an excuse to un-recuse herself. With her in the debate, she could shift the blame away from Tali back onto Rael. The Conclave might raise some trouble about her well-known fondness for the Zorah family influencing her decisions, but given how much dirt she could give them on Rael, they'd quickly quiet. She had been covering for Rael's inappropriate behavior since Ykala had died. The things she knew about him would have the Conclave howling for his resignation in a heartbeat.

For the thousandth time, she cursed herself for tolerating him. She could have saved his life – stopped all this madness before it began – if she had just listened to her instincts, but she'd always given him another chance, always decided that he needed just a little more time, a little more time to accept that his wife was truly gone and that his time with his daughter was running out. But Ykala had been dead for years now and Rael only seemed to get worse, more withdrawn, more secretive. His secret project on the _Alarei _was just the beginning, he'd been keeping his projects closer and closer to his suit with every passing day. She'd asked him – begged him, even – to take a leave of absence, but he'd always refused, always assured her he was on the verge of a breakthrough. When Tali had rejoined the _Normandy, _she'd tried to convince Rael to go with her under pretense of acting as ambassador to the humans, but he'd shut down the motion in bureaucracy before it could even be put to a vote. She had even been considering going to the Conclave with her troubles.

But she hadn't. She'd given him the benefit of the doubt, like always. Whatever one could say of him, Rael was a genius, and a tireless champion for the quarians. He knew more about geth than any quarian alive, and so when he said he was on the verge of defeating the geth, Raan had not second guessed him. She'd trusted his judgment.

She would not make the same mistake again.

"If it comes to choosing between me and the ship," he'd said, "choose the ship." He'd practically pleaded.

She wouldn't listen. She would choose Rael. The geth could take his ship and his research. She wanted him back. Tali needed her father back, alive and back the way he was when she was young.

And the only way to do that was to let Tali take the brunt of the trial for now.

It was the right choice, even if only she could see it.

Raan looked back to Tali. Shoulders slumped, mask down, the girl looked boneless, drained by what she had heard. And yet she did have a shotgun. She had done amazing things. And the human next to her was Commander Shepard, the only human most quarians could name. He had killed a Reaper, or so it was said.

Tali and Shepard were heroes. The best their races had to offer.

Surely between them they would be safe.

…right?

–

Tali's quills had gotten long. As she peeled the girl's helmet from her head, Raan could see where her scalp was being squeezed, pinched in by the quills pressing against the metal.

She _tsk'd_ quietly, setting the helmet's rear piece next to the visor on the narrow shelf that had once been the lip of one of the _Neema's _escape pods, back when it was a turian ship. "How long has it been since you've cut these, Tali?" she asked, running a finger down one of the bigger quills. It was jet black and polished.

Tali mumbled something and kept staring at the wall. She hadn't said a word since the Admirals had passed their judgment. Tali'Zorah, guilty of treason against the fleet unless she could reestablish her innocence on the _Alarei._

Raan's plan had worked, and yet it left a poisonous taste in her mouth.

She tried to brush it away. "If you're going to be spending time on that ship, you really need to talk to the human about getting a cleanroom for you," she said with as much cheer as she could manage. She moved onto the helmet's lower frame, detaching the magnets at the back and splitting it down the middle. Cybernetic jacks detached cleanly, wires pulled from their sockets with a gentle tug, and Tali's head was free. Her neck rings came next, unhooking just below the chin and slackening enough for Raan to pull each scute out and stack them with the rest. "Does the _Normandy _have escape pods?"

Tali shivered in the cold air, her quills standing at attention along the length of her pale neck. She seemed to grow ten centimeters out of armor, her plated skin stretching out for the first time in what had surely been months. "Twelve," she said quietly, her voice strangely whispery without vocoder assistance. "But I don't think the humans would appreciate me turning one into a cleanroom."

Raan put her hands to her hips. "Why not?" she demanded. "Even humans get sick sometimes, don't they?"

"Sterile air doesn't cure infection, Raan," she said, rolling her eyes with her voice. "They just douse things in disinfectant."

Raan clicked her tongue as she fetched a pair of shears from a sealed compartment on the door. It was hard to imagine having enough resources to be willing to waste the buckets of disinfectant it took to truly sterilize an entire room. The humans didn't know how good they had it.

The shears had been heat-sterilized on a fuel line and were brilliantly shiny and clean, and yet Raan gave them a careful inspection for any potential contaminants before setting them to Tali's quills. She clipped each one as close to the base as she could get without nicking her skin. But for the _click _of the shears, the room was quiet. Tali stared past the wall and Raan tried to think of something to say – anything to say. The thought of Tali storming the _Alarei _was terrifying to her – the fact that Tali was so silent even more so.

Though, to her credit, Tali did not look nervous. More tired. Shell-shocked. Raan almost wished the girl _was _nervous. "How many geth-" she tried.

"None, Raan," Tali interrupted, voice suddenly refilled with fire. "I didn't send live geth to the Fleet."

Raan chose not to mention the shipping manifests Xen had so proudly bandied about during the trial, the manifests that documented in excruciating detail the dozens of geth components Tali had sent her father. "Of course not, Tali, but if the geth on the _Alarei are _the ones you sent-"

"The ones I sent were dead!" Tali snapped, and fell silent again, arms held tight across her chest.

Raan did not press the issue.

"Thirty or forty," Tali admitted after a moment, voice morose. "Depending on how they put the parts together."

Raan almost dropped her shears. Eyes wide, she turned Tali around. "_Thirty or forty?_"

Tali looked nonplussed. "Maybe less. I would have thought most of the parts I sent were unsalvageable. But my father knows a lot about how geth work."

Raan's mouth felt dry. _Forty _geth. She had sent her niece to her death. "Gerrel has an attachment of marines readied," she blurted as Tali retook her seat. "The Conclave wouldn't let him send them. But they could help you." She hesitated. "If you want." It was technically against the law but Raan could figure that out later. Suddenly Gerrel's attitude seemed a lot easier to understand.

Tali said nothing, flexing her remaining quills and staring at the wall like she didn't even care she was about to go face _forty geth_. Raan's stomach did flips. Her hands shook.

She tried again. "You… you don't have to do this," she said. "There are other ways. We… we could go back and get the treason charge dealt with."

"That would mean leaving my father to die," Tali pointed out, flexing her quills again. She gestured to the unpruned side of her head.

Raan swallowed heavily and lifted her shears. She steadied her hands and clipped another quill back.

"And you'd charge him with treason anyway," Tali added.

Raan frowned but she did not deny it.

"I'd rather risk the forty geth," Tali said, and slumped down a little further in her seat, waiting for Raan to resume.

Raan did not resume. She set the shears aside and turned Tali around to face her. The girl's skin felt like polished marble under her grip, thick with sinew. "Do you know what Gerrel thinks happened on the _Alarei_?" Raan asked, voice quiet. Tali shook her head. "He thinks the geth somehow snuck on from the outside. He thinks Rael found a way to defeat them and so they infiltrated the fleet to stop him." It was patently ridiculous to think the geth could have broken their way onto a civilian ship in the middle of a flotilla of ten thousand craft, but it was all Gerrel would hear of his friend. He simply wouldn't believe that Rael had been the architect of his own demise.

Tali was quiet. "What if he _did _find a way to defeat them? Would you still call him a traitor?"

"Yes, Tali. I have done all I can to save Rael, and I pray he comes back to us. But alive or dead, what he has done is treason. He will not go unpunished for this."

"Not even if he figured out how to defeat the geth?" Tali repeated.

Raan sighed. The girl was her father's daughter. "_This_ isour home," Raan said, as gently as she could. This is where the people we love live. Rannoch is lost to us and forever will be. Even if we _could _reclaim it."

"_Rannoch _is our home," Tali insisted, eyes narrowed in determination. "Until we get it back we are nothing. Nobody. How can we stand up proud while we live… here?" Tali gestured weakly around the room, disdain written on her face.

Raan felt something inside her stir. It was an argument she'd had before, a million times, and without warning all her frustration came up in a rush. "What use is having a planet if it costs us our families?" she demanded. "Would having Rannoch back mean anything without the millions of lives it would cost us to retake it? Does your _Normandy _mean anything to you without its captain or crew?"

Tali's stared at Raan with wide, glowing eyes, stunned into silence by the admiral's outburst. Raan did not meet her glance, busying herself instead resterilizing the shears. "No," Raan answered her own question after a moment, setting back to Tali's quills. "A ship without a crew is just a machine. A planet without a people is just a piece of rock."

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, listening to the quiet as Raan worked. Once she'd finished shortening Tali's quills, she took a smaller paring knife to round down the blunt ends to minimize the risk of splinters. Then she cleaned with a sterile polymer cloth dipped in the tiniest dab of precious disinfectant. She ran it down Tali's plates, cleaning the ridges between them for powder residue and dead skin that tended to build up. When that was through, she tended to Tali's teeth, checked her tongue and eyes and the four timpani of her earholes. Every scar she found (and Tali had more than a quarian of her age had any right to) Raan carefully cleaned and disinfected before sealing them over with a drop of adhesive.

While she worked, she tried to see Tali's thoughts.

She regretted yelling at her, especially with all that was going on, but Tali was simply too smart, too important to be allowed to follow in her father's footsteps. Not six circuits old and yet about to go dive into a ship full of synthetics. Not six circuits old and already bitter about a homeworld she had never seen – could never even picture. Not six circuits old and already filled with hate for the geth, for the galaxy that let her ancestors down.

Raan had no love for the geth, but she knew scapegoating when she saw it. No matter what anyone said, the geth were not their real concern. In her long life, Raan had never lost a loved one to the geth. But she'd lost family to disease, to hunger, to ship accidents. She'd watched her friend Ykala waste away to nothing over something so little as a malfunctioning air filter. Her mate had been carried off by slavers who'd simply filled his ship with a glass-melting vapor and plucked up the crew as they fled out the airlocks. Her sons had resorted to privateering, stealing ships from whatever aliens did not flee from the approaching Flotilla – then once they'd gone after a volus transport and never returned.

The geth only killed those who asked for it. The rest of the galaxy had long ago accepted that the Perseus Veil was off limits, that all it took to have peace was to stay away. The geth had left the Morning War behind.

And yet every year more and more money and time and effort and _hate _was spent on the geth. Teams were sent to probe geth space for weakness – many never returned. When Raan had first become Admiral and had completed marine training as a formal induction into the military, all they'd spoken of was how to kill geth, what weapons worked against geth, what tactics worked against geth. Nothing about slavers. With all the resources and time they devoted to the geth, they could be improving life support, working on health infrastructure, buying ships legitimately.

Raan had tried, honestly tried to get her people to see this, but it seemed she was fighting a losing battle. Even the Outrider Coalition didn't help her, to say nothing of her fellow Admirals. Xen made no secret that she found geth ten times as interesting as any real person, and Gerrel and Rael were only slightly better.

No one understood. For better or worse, the Flotilla was their home. It had been for three hundred years, and yet the whole quarian race treated it like it was a temporary fix.

"We have no planet, Tali," Raan said quietly as she dabbed Tali's neck and cheeks with fresh hygroscopic powder to inhibit bacterial growth, "but we have family. It is all that matters."

Tali said nothing.

They did not speak again until they'd left the cleanroom. Tali was back in her helmet, the clasps engaged, the fit readjusted. Raan could not help but see the new set in her shoulders as Tali pressed the button that would have once launched the turian ship's escape pods and the clean room slid out of its socket with a rumble, dumping the contaminated air and the tips of Tali's quills out into the vacuum of space. The room would bake in the abyss for a few days, long enough for radiation and vacuum to kill any pathogens left inside, before the _Neema's _crew reclaimed it.

Raan set a hand on Tali's shoulder. "Gerrel's marines will meet you in-"

"I will take Shepard and Garrus," Tali interrupted. At Raan's surprised look, she added "he's a turian. He has a helmet."

Raan raised a brow. "If you do not want Gerrel's marines, so be it. But _three _people? At least the rest of your shipmates could c-"

"No," Tali cut her off again. Just Shepard and Garrus." The two quarians met eyes. "They might be my only family left."

The anger in Tali's eyes was unmistakable.

"…Tali," Raan started, trying to bury the sting of Tali's words.

Tali just stared back, daring her to protest. "Don't coddle me, Raan. I'm _not _stupid. You made this happen." With that, she pivoted on one booted foot and marched away, back to the antechamber where no doubt Shepard waited to take her to the _Alarei._

Raan's eyes followed Tali out. In that moment, there was so much of Rael in her.

* * *

_29 years previously…_

_–_

The former Admiral Nyin'Vael had told her that it would be hard.

"They'll hate you for a time," she'd said, in what Raan had come to understand was her typical lack of tact. "You're new, that's normal. But the rest of the board is new too." Nyin had stared her hard in the mask as she'd explained. "They'll accuse you of just about anything. Don't let it get to you. Do what you have to do. Hold your vector. In time, it will be easier." And then Nyin had turned to leave, as if that was that, but not before adding – almost casually – "of course, you'll have it worse than I ever did, so use your best judgment. Keelah'selai, Admiral Shala'Raan."

Nyin had undersold it.

Raan had tried to be understanding. The Admiralty Board resigning was hard on everyone. The Conclave was furious. Half a dozen Qilahran-heavy ships (those that hadn't had their whole crews exiled for treason) had announced their intentions to continue the rebellion, even with the fledgling Admiral Gossit keeping every gun in the heavy fleet aimed squarely at them. Accusations of bigotry, of corruption, of betrayal were everywhere. The formerly-prominent Vael family – clan of two of the departing Admirals – had crashed so far down the ranks that some were now calling for its dissolution.

And yet with all the hate, all the confusion, all the fear flying around the Flotilla, it seemed to Raan that the only thing everyone agreed on was that she, Admiral Shala'Raan, formerly _vas Siovanni _and newly _vas Tonbay_, was the cause.

That was an exaggeration, of course, but after her first ten days of Admiralty were met with only dirty looks and muttered insults, it was feeling truer and truer.

"Admiral?" Ykala's voice came from below Raan's seat. Behind her mask, her eyes looked concerned. Raan did not answer, staring out at the long line of quarians waiting for an audience with her. The brief civil war was over, but it had left many questions in its wake, and all five of the new Admirals had been holding court for almost three days straight. "Shala?" Ykala asked again, quieter. "Are you ready for the next petitioner?"

Raan shook the weariness from her head. She was glad for Ykala – the girl was in the situation boat as Raan herself was. Raan doubted she'd have gotten through it without someone to share it with. "Yes," she said. "Yes, bring him forward."

A young quarian boy – probably fresh back from his pilgrimage – stepped up to her desk.

Ykala read his name from her datapad – Kzotta'Noan vas _Tonbay _nar _Defranz– _and Raan felt her stomach descend a bit. It was one of her new shipmates on the _Tonbay._

Kzotta gave a short nod of his helmet, but Raan could see the contempt in his luminous eyes. "Admiral Raan vas _Siovanni_," he started, and Raan braced herself. "I am here to ask for the Board to reverse its decision on my cousin's exile."

Raan folded her hands. It was the same thing, yet again. Kzotta was only the latest in what had been an endless stretch of petitioners hoping for the same thing. Nyin had told her to listen to what each of them had to say and then tell each of them 'no' – the Admirals hadn't resigned their posts just to let the rebels back into the fleet. The rebels – all one thousand, one hundred eighty six of them – were exiled, pure and simple.

Still, Raan had to listen. There had been a scant few cases overturned already, mostly cases of mistaken identity. "Who was your cousin?" she asked, trying to ignore the way Kzotta looked up at her.

"Jeyam'Noan nar _Defranz," _he said.

Ykala consulted her console. "Jeyam'Noan nar _Defranz_," she read the words she'd repeated so many times already, "convicted of treason among the _vas __Nayctah _cultists, sentenced to exile. Sentence was commuted under edict of the Conclave, then re-upheld by unanimous decision of the former Admiralty Board." She sighed. "Jeyam'Noan was captured along with fourteen other _Defranz _crewmembers piloting the gunship _Alkanna_ against the battleship _Aolenn'vasha_, contributing to a battle that cost nearly eight hundred quarian lives." She looked up to Raan.

Raan just stared down at Kzotta, eyes expectant.

"He's just a kid," Kzotta said, looking nervous. He knew how bad Jeyam's crime looked. "Ain't even gone on his pilgrimage yet. Some bully tells him he's piloting a gunship, what's he supposed to say?"

"He was supposed to say '_no'_," Raan said, voice calm. It was no decision at all. "Your request is denied. I will not support overturning your cousin's exile."

Kzotta's eyes narrowed. If he was hiding his distaste for Raan before, he wasn't now. "You hypocrite."

Raan's stomach knotted. She didn't know how many more of these she could take.

"Accusing a kid of treason after what _you _did. We don't want you on the _Tonbay. You _were on the _Siovanni. _Home come _you _didn't get exiled?"

"Because I did what your cousin did not, and chose the fleet over my homeship. I _left _rather than rebel." Raan said, as evenly as she could manage.

Kzotta muttered something, too quiet to hear. And yet somehow Raan knew what it was all the same. "_Vael whore."_

"You should address the Admiral with more respect," Ykala said, frowning. She had left the _Siovanni _for the _Tonbay _to avoid the rebels too – it was only Raan's new role as Admiral had made her the target for all of the abuse.

Kzotta cleared his air filter at her.

The room fell silent in shock. Clearing an air filter at another quarian – an Admiral's aide no less – was almost unthinkably rude. Kzotta seemed to puff up at his own bravado, and turned to storm off…

Only to run into the quarian behind him. Another young male, taller and thinner than Kzotta, in a black suit patterned with the Zorah purple. "You could have waited to clear your filter until you were not in audience with an _Admiral_," the Zorah said, arresting Kzotta's escape with a firm grip on the shoulders of his suit, "But you didn't. That kind of hygiene is commendable." Kzotta broke his grip and staggered back, confused. The Zorah just rubbed at his vocoder in mock thought. "I think Special Projects could use someone with your commitment to cleanliness to manage waste disposal for our ships."

"Piss off, Zorah."

The Zorah just clicked his tongue. "Unfortunately for you, Admiral Tega will not find his mercy so easy as Raan does hers."

Kzotta backed up a few paces, apparently realizing only now what he'd done.

"Apologize to the Admiral, will you?" the Zorah asked.

Kzotta's eyes were wide as he looked up at Raan. "S…sorry, Ma'am." He turned to leave.

"And her assistant?" the Zorah added. Kzotta turned and mumbled an apology at Ykala. The whole room watched him scurry out. Raan could not help but smile – seeing the boy run was about the only cheering sight Raan had had all week. "I suspect you shall have Tega's work order waiting for you by the time you get back to the _Tonbay._" the Zorah called out after him, before calmly readjusting his gloves and stepping back into line.

Raan just stared.

"Uh… Rael'Zorah vas _Rayya_ nar _Kestus," _Ykala read, and Raan could hear the grin in her voice.

Rael'Zorah stepped forward and gave a showy bow. "Pleasure to meet you, Admiral." He met her gaze. "I am sure that fool does not represent your new ship at all. I should expect they would be very proud to accept you. Many other ships rue that the _Tonbay _got to you first."

The praise felt good, but Raan was too decorous (and much too wise) to put much stock in the young male's flattery. "He is entitled to his opinion."

"Naturally," Rael agreed. "But it is _my _opinion that _his_opinion is moronic, and so I will treat you," he looked at Ykala with a none-too-innocent flick of his brows, "and your staff… with only the utmost respect."

Raan could practically feel Ykala blush from where she sat. "Are you here to petition for an exiled relative as well?" she asked, cutting through the adolescent pheromones that threatened to clog the ship's air filters.

Rael shook his head. "No, Admiral. Twenty-seven Zorahs on your list, I believe, and I, for one, earnestly hope they all end up serving their exile on Tuchanka. If the krogan find them palatable, they will at least do some good." Raan nodded. The Zorahs were not known for their mercy. "As I mentioned, I work for Admiral Tega's Special Projects. He sent me to petition your support for the release of some of the exiles' ships." Rael activated an omni-tool on each wrist and called up the schematics of the ships in question. "Several have had their entire crews exiled, and Admiral Tega feels some of these ships would be of better use in his hands than repopulated as civilian vessels."

Without asking permission, Rael transferred his data to Raan's console, and it bloomed with miniature ships before her eyes. "Which ships?" she asked.

"Admiral Tega did not specify. But if I may? The _Alepso, Syreuteuth, Balupel, Alarei, _and _Runein _would be ideally suited for some of our upcoming work."

Raan's brows rose. "Three of those ships are not empty, Rael'Zorah."

Rael averted his eyes. "Well… no. But almost."

"You are asking me to evict the remaining crew from their homes, then. This is a bold request."

"_Admiral __Tega_ is asking," Rael corrected, "and I think of it as consolidating_._ I have arranged with my captain to accept any interested among the evicted onto the _Rayya_, and Admiral Tega assures me the same offer will stand on the _Konal._We would even be willing to accept them as research assistants for Special Projects if they were so inclined."

Raan dismissed the ship holograms with a wave of her hand. "If they are inclined to give up their homeships. These people have done nothing wrong, Rael'Zorah."

Rael shrugged. "One could construct an argument that many of the rebels did nothing wrong either," he said, pacing. He spoke as if to himself, but Raan knew it was showmanship. "They simply decided to put their own needs above those of the Fleet. Admiral Tega is offering these lonely crews the opportunity to do the opposite." He stared up at Raan, ramrod straight and confident. "Special Projects' research has the potential to save the quarian race, Admiral," he said, believing it utterly. "Many of those ships would be incalculable resources in our hands."

Raan looked down at him. She had seen his type before. Young, fearless, smart. Probably just returned from his Pilgrimage and thought he was ready to save the Fleet, to take on the geth single handedly. Still… he had some charm. And Ykala seemed to like him.

"You left _your _homeship for the Fleet," Rael'Zorah reminded her.

Raan nodded, coming to a decision. "Rael'Zorah, I will consider your proposal," she said, the twist of a smile on her lips.

Rael's grin was obvious even from behind his helmet. "That is all I can ask," he said, and he bowed again, lower, more showily. It was an alien gesture – turian, Raan would guess – and the pride in the boy's eyes as he stood made it clear he thought it made him look dignified.

Perhaps it did.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

"Are you sure you're alright, Admiral?"

Koris looked up from the datapad on his lap – he hadn't really been reading it – to see a cluster of his new students staring out at him from behind the crèche walls. With his head muddied by fever it took him a moment to realize what had been asked.

"You were coughing," one of the children – no more than a circuit old, with her baggy plastic suit taped to her temporary gloves and helmet – said, her fingers fiddling with the air hose that hooked to her back.

Koris shook his head. "Was I?" He sniffed wetly. His throat _was _rather raw. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm fine, children. No need to worry." He'd had enough of that today. "Back to your work, please. I expect your writings done before I leave."

"You're sick, Admiral," one of the students accused.

Koris' eyes narrowed. "And _you're _attempting to escape your studies. If you would leave matters of my health to _me _please, that would be most appreciated." He snapped his fingers. "Now. Back to your work." The young quarians gave a groan but returned to their consoles and the homework Koris had assigned them.

It was true, Koris' immune system had been acting up. Again. A little headache, a little itchiness, it was all routine, especially for him. He'd grown so used to it he'd hardly noticed it at first. Even after Shepard and Tali had departed for the _Alarei _and his headache had progressed into a full-on migraine, he'd simply dosed himself and forgotten about it, determined to see the trial through. His frequent illnesses had done little to help his (quite-undeserved, Koris thought) reputation as the weakest of the five Admirals, and stepping out of the most important trial of the circuit for an immunobooster would only make things worse.

So he'd grit his teeth and stayed for the whole thing, for Tali's return, for the mess that was the second half of the deliberations.

Now it was finally over. One of his assistants had brought him a shot an hour or two previously, but if it was working, he could not tell. He knew he should be resting on the _Quib-Quib_, but he was far too riled for sleep.

He had plans in motion. Persecuting Han'Gerrel for his rampantly illegal actions a few days previously was high on his list – he'd been waiting for Gerrel to make a mistake of that magnitude for a long time, and watching it ruin him – possibly even cost him his position as Admiral – would be delicious. He had already schedule the first disciplinary hearings.

But now there were even greater things to be done. Rael'Zorah's death – and it was clear now that the great Admiral had well and truly killed himself with his own experiments – would change everything. He'd sent the summons the moment the trial ended, invited every one of his political allies to the _Quib-Quib_ to discuss their next move. They had no time to waste. The military-minded quarians would be scrambling to come up with a new candidate to replace Rael, someone equally warmongering, equally pro-martial law, but Koris could not let them have that chance. He needed an ally on the Board, for once. Time was of the essence – he and his allies had to find their own candidate, and fast.

But with half of his supporters on Outrider's Coalition ships it would take some time to convene. Hours, at least. Hours that Koris' incessant assistants would have him spending sleeping in a medical bay if they could.

He had no intention of doing that if he could help it. He needed time to think, to calm himself before he met with his allies. Time to decide who he would nominate. Time and quiet, not drugs in a crowded med-bay. And so he'd escaped them in the _Neema's _crowded shuttle bays as the trial attendees massed to return to their homeships and snuck his way back to the crèche to hide amongst the _Neema's _youngest crewmates.

The crèche was a good hiding place not because it was hidden but because of what he might accomplish there.

The _Neema _was Gerrel's ship through-and-through. Its crew gave Koris the respect he was due as Admiral (whether they liked it or not, he was of equal military rank to Gerrel), but it was not hard to feel how unwelcome he and his politics were. To them, he was the leader of the enemy, trying to take all their military power away just when they needed it most. For his part, Koris did not bother trying to win any hearts or minds on Gerrel's home territory.

But the _Neema's _children were a different matter. They were young, still unspoiled by their parents' warmongering. They were worth talking to.

And so the first thing he'd done upon setting foot in the crèche was to assign every single child there homework about quarian history. He knew Gerrel and his captain's curriculum wouldn't have bothered with much beyond military victories of the middle states and indeed – none of the children seemed to even know where to start. He'd had to show them how to access the old Rannochian archives on the fleet's intranet. He'd even had to _spell _Rannoch for some of them. Children on ships like the _Neema _were groomed for military service and little else.

Which was precisely why ships like the _Neema _had become so very, very stupid in the past three hundred years.

Zaal stood, ignoring the ache in his shoulders, and made a round, pacing along the length of the creche's glass walls, staring in at each quarian child in turn. They were all – to their credit – hard at work, bent over consoles, reading writings of their long-lost homeworld. Some were tiny, their plates still soft, their quills translucent bumps on their round skulls, their faces concealed behind brightly-colored full masks half again the size of the child. Others were older, boys and girls _nar Neema_, preparing to head out on their first sojourn into the greater galaxy.

He'd decided to focus on the Qilaharan tribes that hailed from Rannoch's southern continent today. He stopped by one child about a circuit or so old, wearing a patterned jerkin that identified her as a Raan. "What was the primary export of the Qilaharan southern states?" he asked her.

"Food."

Koris nodded. "And?"

The child screwed up her face behind her clear, bubble-visored helmet for a moment before looking up to him, defeated.

Koris shook his head. "The Qilaharan cultures also exported precious metals and fuel."

"Not geth."

Koris sighed. He was so terribly bored of talking about the geth. Did no quarians care about what they were _before _the nastiness of the Morning War? "Not geth," Koris agreed. "Those were the handiwork of some of the northern states. The Zorahs and the Vaels and such. Though the southerners were the originators of the VI ancestral databanks that ultimately gave rise to the creation of the geth." He took another step, ignoring the way the Raan girl sighed in relief at his passing. "What else?" he asked the room. "What else were the southerners known for?"

There was silence, but Koris stood through it, letting it build.

"V-veils," one voice supplied.

Koris smiled. "Excellent." He fingered his own hood. "Yes, the veils we wear were a fashion in the south long before the Morning War. Though on Rannoch they were considerably more elaborate. The ship _Kalavasta _in the civilian fleet has one on display. A deep blue with gold filigree. I'm told the gold alone weighs almost ten kilos." Koris could not help but smile at the quiet gasps he got at that. He'd seen the _Kalavasta's _veil – the captain had even let him touch it, one of the few pieces of Rannoch that still existed – and it had been a life-changing experience. He liked to think some of these children might get the same opportunity someday.

He kept walking. "What else?" he asked. "The Qilaharan maintained an important city on Rannoch's surface. One which – while now destroyed – should be familiar to every quarian. What was it?" There was a flurry of typing as each child queried their consoles, but Koris looked at another student, this one older, probably only a year or two from their pilgrimage. The boy met his eyes and shrank.

"Hmm?" Koris asked, brows raised.

The boy just shrugged.

Koris sighed again. It was frustrating how much the quarians had forgotten in their exile. The city of Keelhn had been Rannoch's cultural capital, the oldest city on the planet. It had lent its name to their gods, their people, even their homeworld itself. Until the middle states had razed them, it had played host to half of the ancestral imprints on Rannoch. It was not a part of history that should be forgotten, even if it never was attacked by the geth.

He felt a cough slither its way up his throat and he turned, coughing until his mouth burned with the taste of blood. His helmet gave a rattle as it pushed a blast of clean air down his nostrils and the dehumidifiers hummed. Koris leaned against the wall.

"Admiral?"

Koris shook his head. "The city," he managed, trying to force down another coughing fit. "Qilaharan city. What was it?"

The boy stood up from his desk. "Admiral, you're not supposed to be here if you're sick."

Koris just frowned. It was true, even suited quarians were expected to be careful around the crèche – signs painted upon the walls attested as much – but it was foolishness. If the boy thought he could oust Koris so easily, he was mistaken. "You are behind glass and the best filtration systems on the ship," he said, steadying himself against a bulkhead. "And furthermore, I have no infection to give you. I think you will be fine. Now, the city, please."

"I think I need a medic," the boy said, ignoring him.

Koris rolled his eyes, halfway amused at the boy's transparency. "I will call one for you just as soon as I am convinced you understand the significance of the Qilaharans' cities." He crossed his arms.

The boy coughed into his helmet. "I-I'm serious," he said, forcing another cough. "I need one of the crèche medics."

Koris narrowed his eyes.

–

The boy – Damec'Keeln nar _Neema_, as it turned out – had eyes as wide as moons as Koris led him down the crowded hallways of the ship. All of his vitriol had disappeared when Koris had opened the creche's airlock, disconnected his air hose, and pulled him out – he'd probably never left the crèche before, never seen an actual medbay, instead being cared for by the crèche's dedicated medics.

He pressed numbly at the datapad in his hands as Koris dragged him along. "I… I think I feel better, sir," he tried, voice weak.

Koris just shook his head. "No, no, you were quite right," he said, not quite keeping the gentle mockery out of his tone. "I may have contaminated the lot of you."

"Children aren't supposed to leave th-"

"I'm an Admiral," Koris reminded him, ignoring the stares of the _Neema's _crew as he dragged the boy towards the medbay. "I think I can handle the consequences. It won't be terribly long before you are off on your Pilgrimage, Damec. You'd best get used to leaving your cage." Koris could see he was scaring the boy, but that was good. If Damec was going to become a marine (or, ancestors willing, absolutely _anything _else) he would need to know how his immune system actually worked.

The medbay was even more crowded than usual, packed with hypochondriacs who were convinced Captain Shepard's brief stay on the ship had contaminated them. Koris rolled his eyes at the fools. If only they had been lucky enough to meet him when they were Damec's age, they would not be so foolishly alarmist in matters of health. The _Neema _was a big ship – one of the Fleet's heavy frigates (as if any other sort would have satisfied Han'Gerrel) – but it was overcapacity. Hundreds of quarians from all across the fleet had shown up to watch Tali's trial, and now that it was over the line waiting to see the medics spilled from the medbay and wound down the hall.

Koris and Damec took their place in line with the rest.

"Read," Koris commanded, resting a hand on Damec's shoulder. "We will be here for a while. You have plenty of time to find the city I asked for." Damec nodded, eyes still wide at the spectacle around him.

Koris scanned the crowd. He was confident his assistants wouldn't bother checking the medbay for him – he had made it clear how little he liked the medics poking at him – but there were a great many others he'd just as soon not run into while they waited. The crowds were a sea of Zorah purple today – whether true Zorahs or simply fans of Rael'Zorah or Tali herself wearing their colors in protest of the treason accusations. Koris eyed the nearest pack of purple-hooded miscreants warily. Rael himself had been a warmonger, but he was at least a very _smart _warmonger, a quarian who knew that a line had to be drawn at some point. Koris was not confident the same could be said about Rael's fan club, many of whom seemed to think Rael was still alive somehow, perhaps already on his way to Rannoch to liberate it for them.

Koris saw others too, interest groups that didn't care about the Zorahs but had realized the trial was more complicated than just Rael and Tali's fate. The Idennites were up in arms about Shepard and the turian being brought onboard, and that was just the start with them – Koris knew once it got out that the _Normandy _was a Cerberus ship and that it had been allowed to leave unaccosted, there would be hell to pay. The Outrider Coalition was present in force too. Most of those were Koris' allies, but even they often caused him more trouble than anything else. Koris even recognized Hide'Col vas _Quib-Quib _and his usual cadre of radical geth sympathizers in the line up ahead and did his best to duck behind the quarian in front of him. Hide had his heart in the right place, but had never seemed to grasp the delicacy of the geth situation like Koris would prefer. He and his followers were always submitting proposals to the Conclave to land on Rannoch straightaway, convinced that the geth would never fire upon them, and Koris had had to fight his whole career not to be lumped into that camp.

Contrary to popular belief, Koris knew all too well how dangerous the geth were. Even if he hadn't, the _Alarei _should have been a significant enough clue.

"Your immune system," Koris explained, once he was confident no one was going to pounce on them, "is a very complicated thing." Damec gave him his full attention and more now. "And not all illnesses are equal. They have different symptoms, different causes, different infectivity. Different _responses_." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "In some cases, an immuno-booster could save your life. In others it would kill you."

"Yes Admiral." Damec nodded, eyes still wide and overwhelmed.

Koris nodded back, satisfied. "My current illness is simply a hyper-response to foreign material. Some haywire immune activity. It's a deregulation. Not a pathogen. More an illness. It isn't contagious." He squeezed Damec's shoulder again for emphasis. "It would be a poor excuse for _me _to shirk homework. It is an even poorer excuse for you."

The line pondered along and Koris left the boy to his reading after that (or, rather, to _pretending_to read while gawking at the noisy crowd of quarians that filled the corridor shoulder to shoulder). The two of them made an odd pair, but aside from the occasional curious stare, nobody paid them any undue attention.

Until they finally got to a medic, that was.

The medic recognized them with a mixture of horror and amazement in her luminescent eyes.

Koris ignored her outrage, pushing past her into the med bay. "Admiral Zaal'Koris vas _Quib-Quib_," he said, peering into the nearest bay. "Damec'Keeln and I are on a bit of a pilgrimage together. We need to see the infection ward." The quarians in the first room stared out at Koris with confused faces, but he recognized the labels on the medicines they were being given – immunosuppressants for generalized reactions like his. He started for the next door.

The medic followed. "Admiral!" she shouted, finally having found her tongue. "That is a _child_!"

Koris ignored her. "Any patient with a true infection will do, ma'am," he said. "We are educating ourselves today. Think of it as preventative medicine."

"He needs to go back to the crèche!" Koris felt his grip on Damec's shoulder wrenched away by the medic's hands.

Koris turned and stared at her and she froze like she'd been spotted by some great predator. In her grip, Damec looked conflicted, but the look she gave him was nothing short of terror. He wondered what monster stories the Gerrel family had told her about him.

Still. There were benefits to be had.

"You will not take him," he said, voice quiet.

The medic released Damec like she'd been burnt.

Koris turned and led the way down the hall, Damec and the nervous medic in tow. Everywhere he went the medical bays were packed with patients receiving immunosuppressants, and he could not help but be irritated. It was only the last of the five bays that was set aside for quarians with contagious illnesses, each patient cloistered within a large, sterile cell.

Koris walked into the first cubicle without hesitation, Damec and the medic following behind.

Inside on one of the two cots laid a male quarian, armored in a red-and-beige hardsuit pocked with use. Koris recognized him instantly, even with half a dozen IV drips hooked to the ports in his arms and chin. He filed into the narrow standing space next to the cot, ushering in the others, and closed the cubicle door behind his captive audience.

He cleared his throat. "_This_unfortunate quarian," he said, consulting the console by the marine's feet, "has an infection." Koris paged through the medics' notes. "He sustained four puncture wounds on the planet Haestrom. Kal'Reegar, tell the boy how you feel."

The marine looked at Damec, who stared back with eyes that said he expected to melt if Reegar so much as blinked at him. "Like a suit full of shit, sir," he said, not unkindly.

"More specifically, please?"

Reegar's brows rose. "Err… Okay," he said. " Pounding head. Nasty fever. Coughing up blood. Can't hardly think straight without meds. Heart pounding like crazy. Feel like I've been run through an engine."

Koris was satisfied. "Could you stand, if you were so inclined?"

"For a little while. Stood up in the trial for a minute or two."

"And how long have you been ill?"

"Nine weeks, sir." Reegar paused. "Err… Maybe ten. Or twelve. I don't remember."

"Thank you, Kal'Reegar." Koris nodded and turned back to his erstwhile student. "Were he not wearing a suit," he said, "this marine would be highly contagious. His immune system is fighting a pathogen he picked up on Haestrom, probably a strain that originated from Rannoch and was spread to the colonies by spacers long before the Morning War. A true quarian illness. With antibiotics and immune boosting, he will recover, but it will take many weeks to defeat the infection."

He looked at Damec until the boy met his gaze.

"I, on the other hand, am suffering a general response to exposure to some foreign material. No pathogen, no illness. I am not contagious, nor am I in any great danger. If I took some immune-compromisers, I would recover in a matter of hours. Understand?"

Damec nodded.

The medic finally spoke up. "_Now_ may I take him back to the crèche, _Admiral?_"

Koris nodded magnanimously. "You may."

The medic took Damec and rushed out the door. With a last quiet thank you to Reegar, Koris followed…

Only to find his assistants waiting for him outside the cell, wearing matched expressions of disapproval. Koris glared at the medic, who simply excused herself with a satisfied shine to her eyes.

"Admiral…" one of his assistants – Nala'Koris, a distant cousin – intoned. She did not look happy to see him. Behind her her counterpart looked no more amused.

Koris shrugged, defeated. "I am a consummate educator," he offered.

"Sit down, consummate educator," Nala commanded, pointing to the empty cot by Reegar. "You are getting treatment."

She had starfire in her eyes, and Koris knew there was no point in arguing. He could hardly evade them _again, _right in the middle of the medbay, and they looked like they were ready to strap him down if they needed to. He took his seat on the cot, resolving to save his battles for another day.

His assistants stayed by his side while a pair of medics came to fuss over him, testing his temperature with a probe slid into the jack beneath his jaw, mucking their way through adjusting the medical diagnostics and protocols in his suit's onboard computer (which he'd _finally _gotten to the configuration he liked, thank you very much), and generally making pests of themselves. Then there were the questions. Was he eating right, had he had any suit breaches lately, did he need them to go over any issues of suit maintenance, was he noticing any fever, was he taking proper contamination procedures. The patronization droned on and on, as if he wasn't an _Admiral_.

He only got respite once they'd stuck an IV of immunosuppressors into his forearm and forced him down to rest, but even after they'd left the room, Koris could see his assistants' silhouette through the translucent cubicle walls. They didn't trust him not to try to escape.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling for all of thirty seconds before getting bored and turning to look at his roommate. Kal'Reegar had been silent through the whole ordeal, lying with his back turned as his own battery of medications dripped into him.

"Medics, huh?" Koris asked.

Reegar turned to his other side to regard the Admiral. "Only trying to do their job I'm sure, Admiral," he said. He sounded polite enough, but Koris could hear disapproval in his tone. Not surprising, considering he was one of Gerrel's favored pets.

Koris ignored it as he disconnected the IV. Reegar's eyes watched him with guarded curiosity as he carefully removed the needle and tied off the line before draping it over a nearby console to prevent it siphoning valuable medicine onto the floor. Koris sat up and stretched his neck, clearing his clogged sinuses with a loud snort.

"Thank you for your assistance with my little demonstration. I am sure Damec will remember," he said. He paused. "I do hope your health is returning swiftly."

"Piss poor, sir, but coming back," Reegar said. He gestured to the IV lines in his own arms. "Gonna be on these for half a circuit." His voice was still stiff, still guarded. Still full of distrust.

Koris frowned, irritated. "Still, if I recall correctly, Haestrom is in _geth_space," he said. "Positively crawling with geth, to hear Gerrel describe it. It is a lucky thing you came back at all." It was petty, to imply that being sent to Haestrom was somehow Reegar's fault, but all the same, Koris was tired of this ship's bad attitude.

"Nothin' I haven't suffered before," Reegar said, unruffled. He stared at Koris. "Won't be fighting for a bit but thankfully I can still speak."

_"Damn straight. Tali's done more for this fleet than you assholes ever will. You're pissing on everything I fought for! Everything Tali fought for! So if you exile her… you might as well do the same to me." _The marine had been so unsteady on his feet that he'd needed the other quarian – the halfwit – to hold him up, but his voice had been powerful enough for the crowd to hear. He'd practically whipped them into a frenzy in three sentences.

Reegar stared, pale eyes ice cold, willing Koris to remember and be ashamed.

Koris sighed. "You spoke well, Kal'Reegar vas Heera," he admitted. "You said something I believe we needed to hear. I wish I had said it."

"I wish that too, sir."

Koris eyed him. "I am sensing some resentment, Kal'Reegar."

"I'm sorry, sir," Reegar said, not denying it.

Koris sighed again. "I did what I had to do. I am frightfully alone on the Board as it is. If I must take drastic action to keep an additional vote out of Rael'Zorah's suicidal plans, then so be it." He shook his head. "Tali'Zorah must not be made Admiral." Rael's spot would need to be filled, and if the quarian people were to survive, it could not go to his daughter. She would be him all over again, Koris was sure of it. She was popular, she was intelligent, she was an expert on killing geth. She was Rael's own daughter, and Rael had treated her like his own parents had treated him.

But she could not be Admiral. Koris had fought against Rael and Gerrel on the Board for many years. It was only by Raan's indecisiveness and Xen's general apathy that had kept them from invading Rannoch already. But it was only a matter of time before he lost that fight. He needed another vote on his side.

"Not Tali," Koris whispered again.

Reegar was unconvinced. "Ancestors know we don't need another _hero_on the board," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Koris looked at him. "…sir."

"Rael was hardly a hero."

Reegar just shook his head and rolled over again, turning his back to Koris. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Koris ignored the flash of anger he felt at that comment. People had been saying its ilk to him for years, how he didn't _understand_what being a military quarian was like, but it was a patently ridiculous accusation. He'd been a marine in his youth, just as Rael'Zorah and Han'Gerrel had (in fact, he'd served three years longer than Rael, who'd left to join Special Projects immediately after returning from his pilgrimage). He'd also served on the Conclave like Raan, eventually following her onto the Board after the forced removal of Admiral Lestra'col vas Nyara. On the Board, only he had legitimately invested in both halves of the quarian government, the military and civilian alike.

"I think I understand better than you give me credit for, Reegar. I was once a marine."

Reegar didn't turn back, but all the same Koris could see the anger in his eyes. "I don't think a marine would throw a dead brother's daughter out the airlock for political reasons. I don't think a marine would try to exile a dead brother's daughter."

"I voted to exonerate her," Koris said, but it sounded weak even to him. It had been unanimous – after the crowd of onlookers had rallied, retracting the charges was the only way to avoid a nasty political fallout. He could hardly count himself among Tali's allies for _that. _Xen and Raan had orchestrated the trial against Tali – Koris had only really been interested in ousting Rael himself – and yet he _had _said some rather damning things about her, and so soon after she'd heard about her father. Not to mention trying to sabotage her by having her name changed to _vas Normandy. _He doubted the girl would ever forgive him.

And he _did _feel some guilt over that.

The two of them were silent for a long moment. "You are close to Tali," Koris said eventually.

"Somewhat."

Koris hesitated for a moment. "Did you see her after the trial? Did she look well?"

Reegar turned around again, eyes suspicious. "Yeah…" he admitted after a moment. "She had her human with her. Shepard. He'll take care of her."

Koris's brow rose at the forlorn look that took over the marine's face. "You don't look happy about that…" he accused, curious. There was something in the marine's body language, like as sick as he was, it was only on mention of the human that all the strength left to him.

It was simple enough to guess why. He couldn't help but smile a little. "You think she's in some kind of relationship with the human?"

Reegar didn't deny it. "Do you not?"

Koris thought back to the trial. Obviously his plan to change Tali's name had backfired - Captain Shepard had come through for her spectacularly. But a relationship with a _human? _It was… an unsettling notion. Still, the way she'd jumped into his arms once Raan had read the verdict. "Hmm…" he admitted, and Reegar's shoulders sank a little more. "Yes… I suppose I can see how you might come to that conclusion." He clicked his tongue. "Dreadfully odd, really. Tali is very eligible. And he looks rather like-"

"-A skinned baby," Reegar finished for him.

Koris nodded, mind full of the humans' bizarre, round skulls, pink, fleshy, skin, and distinct lack of plates or quills. "Indeed. Though perhaps with his helmet on he has a decent personality." He shrugged.

Reegar didn't laugh.

Koris sighed. "Kal'Reegar, if you'll allow me to give you some advice…" Reegar looked at him. "The Zorahs are… a difficult family. Stubborn. Fearless in the best and worst sort of way." He shook his head, full of memories of Rael. How he'd hated him just days ago. But now – he was surprised to admit – some part of him actually missed the warmongering lunatic. "But I will be the first to say their loyalty to the Fleet is without compare. Tali will not be away from her home for long." He nodded to himself, realizing it was true. "She will be back, do not fear."

* * *

_12 days previously…_

_–_

Rael'Zorah knew a great many ways to say 'no'.

"It is with deepest regret," he said, standing tall in the middle of the room, the Conclave, the Board, the Coalition, and half a hundred captains from across the fleet hanging on his words, "that the Admiralty Board has decided not to support Zoaph'Daran's motion for the time being."

From his seat behind the podium, Koris resisted the urge to interrupt with a fit of coughing. A scratching feeling had kindled in his throat some days ago after his most recent experiment, giving rise to a wet, futile cough that simply refused to abate, but he'd taken a pill and done his best to hold it in for the hearings. It _was _getting better. And, compared to last time, the cough was not nearly so severe. Koris took that to be a good sign. He was getting stronger. Still, listening to Rael pontificate overtop the motion he'd worked so hard on for so many days made his cough blaze with a vengeance.

But if nothing else, Koris was a quarian with principles. He would not be so disrespectful, not even to Rael.

And so he just smoldered in silence.

Rael was a powerful orator. As antisocial (and, in Koris' eyes, _crazy_) as he had become, he was still capable of pulling out the charm that had helped him talk his way into the Board in the first place. For all the Conclave knew – for Rael rarely left his draconian research but for the most critical of Conclave sessions – he was the same brilliant quarian they had voted in years ago.

_Some _of them knew the truth. Rael's hold had been slipping. But one could hardly see that now.

"The Fleet will be passing through the Valhallan Threshold in the coming weeks," Rael said, oblivious to the dirty stares Koris was shooting his way. "The Raheel-Leyya system, then to Pax and Micah." Rael paused, looking out at his audience. They nodded, anticipating his point. Everyone already knew the Flotilla's circuit route by memory, knew all the trouble spots. The Threshold had given them trouble before. "These are not safe systems on the best of circuits," Rael continued. "Least of all on this one. Council-race corporate interests fight the local krogan and vorcha populations on the Pax system's planet Garvug. Thousands of mercenaries stream through the relay every day to protect the Council's precious resources."

Rael's audience was full of understanding nods. The quarians had little fondness for Citadel business.

"We have no choice," Rael admitted, "but to move through these warzones. But we must all – every one of us – have a mind to safety while we do. We must avoid any compromise, any unnecessary risk. We must double patrols. We must broaden scanner ranges. We must see danger before it happens_, _and we must be ready to _stop it._" He paused again, letting his warning sink in.

"It is only with the full fleet in formation that we can safely occupy the cluster," Rael continued, nodding to himself as if it took great effort to admit it. Koris grimaced. "While we would like to authorize Captain Zoaph'Daran's request to escort Coalition ships throughout the cluster's more distant systems in search of habitable worlds, we believe this would be taking an unacceptable risk at this time. The Coalition controls some of the fleet's most important ships, along with many of our representatives here," Rael said, gesturing to the crowd. "We must not risk them lightly."

The audience drank it up.

Rael nodded again, folding his hands behind his back – the picture of magnanimity. "And I ask you," he added, his gaze flitting across the assembled quarians at just the right speed. "Even if the Coalition ships found a suitable world here… Is this _really_ where we want to make our home? Do you _really _want to share your home with krogan? With vorcha? With the Citadel's parasitic business empires?"

"Do you _really _want to give up Rannoch to live… _here?_"

–

Koris was still fuming as he boarded the shuttle that would take him to one of the hub ships. Rael had, once again, managed to ruin everything, and simply make people love him all the more doing it. After his speech – and quite despite the short rebuttals he and Captain Zoaph'Daran had been allowed – the Conclave had voted the Outrider motion down by a landslide. Koris had expected all the military sycophants – all of Zorah and Gerrel's slavering, warmongering fans – to vote against him – missing, perhaps, the fact that unless the whole board wanted to resign, Rael didn't have the tiniest say in whether or not scouting ships could be sent. But for Rael to be able to so easily frighten the rest of the Conclave with veiled, nonspecific warnings of danger was a travesty.

It infuriated him. As far as Koris was concerned, the Outrider's Coalition was the quarians' way out of this mess, captains volunteering to take their ships out to look for new homeworlds. There was danger inherent, yes, but no more than the slow, wasting danger of continuing to live on the Fleet, waiting for a disaster to befall their food source, or their water source, or their fuel source. Putting all of the quarians in a single, fragile pile was lunacy, and _when_ – not if – they had a major supply disaster, their entire species would be in terrible danger. For as long as the fleet had existed, the solution had been clear to everyone – retake Rannoch – but three hundred years later Rannoch remained un-retook.

They had to find a new homeworld. That was how they'd survive, not by slaughtering themselves against the geth on Rannoch or steadily starving themselves out in myriad cramped ship. That was their only chance. And yet in almost a year since the Coalition had been formed (and quite against Koris' constant efforts), Rael and Gerrel had managed to shut down every single real proposal, always promising to assist later. Later. Later. Not here. Not this system.

The Coalition would need military escort. But every time, Rael and Gerrel refused to share their toys. And nobody but Koris seemed to hate them for it.

While Koris had had to fight for every single victory (he'd had to defend the tiny Rannoch museum he maintained on the _Quib-Quib_ from accusations that it was a waste of resources _nine times_), Rael didn't even have the decency to look like he prepared for his speeches. He just stood up, said a few misleading words, made a few empty promises, and smiled, and everybody suddenly agreed. If they knew who he was, if they knew the laws he broke, the resources he wasted, they would turn on him in a heartbeat. But nobody seemed to care.

Koris tried not to think about it as he took his seat in the shuttle's cramped passenger deck. His stress had brought his cough back with a vengeance and it did not do to linger on Rael's constant awfulness. Hating Rael accomplished nothing. Koris would have his victory someday. Eventually, clearer heads would prevail. He just had to think, had to go back to his datapad and come up with a new plan. Try to convince Captain Zoaph to appeal the Conclave's decision, perhaps.

But when he noticed the characteristic black armor ringed with a lone strap of Zorah purple sitting a few rows up, he could not help himself. He climbed out of his seat.

Rael was staring out the window as he approached.

"Congratulations, Rael," Koris said. "You've managed to stymie progress once again."

Rael said nothing.

Koris would not give up that easily. "You are abominable, you know that?" Koris asked.

Rael slowly turned to look at him, as if he'd only just now noticed Koris was there. His eyes were hollow, dimmer than usual. "I've been told as much," he admitted, voice quiet. He trailed off. "Usually by you," he added.

"What is _wrong_with you?" Koris demanded, taking the seat across from Rael. "You know very well Garvug doesn't pose a danger to a few scout ships. How can you possibly-"

Rael returned his gaze to the window like he hadn't even heard.

Koris' brows rose on his head. "…Rael?"

"Why don't you have children, Koris?"

Koris' words died on his tongue, flabbergasted. He stared at the other Admiral in confusion. Since when did Rael care about his personal life? But if Rael was joking, he gave no sign, staring out the window at the swarms of mismatched ships that were the fleet. Koris found himself answering. "I just…" Koris started, "I suppose I never found the right mate."

"The right mate," Rael echoed, nodding, voice empty. Koris shook his head. Something was _very _wrong. Rael looked… intoxicated, somehow. Long ago, on Rannoch, quarians had enjoyed a vast assortment of liquors, but all such frivolities had been left behind in their exodus. There was no space to grow luxury crops. It wasn't something quarians on the Fleet did. It was wasteful.

But Rael had crossed lines before. Was it possible he'd gotten his hands on some kind of turian alcohol? "Are you ill?" Koris asked, deciding not to accuse anything further than that.

Rael looked at him with a bemused expression. "Not as ill as you are."

Koris faltered. Not this again. He narrowed his eyes, subconsciously clearing his throat of the mucus building up there. "What is _that_supposed to m-"

"It's a good idea, what you've been doing," Rael interrupted. He looked back to his window. "I wish I had thought of it."

Koris stared at him, not believing his ears. How could Rael _possibly _know what he'd been up to? "What I've been-"

"Why you're always sick," Rael clarified, interrupting.

"Oh." Koris was struck dumb by that, caught between surprise at being found out and confusion at Rael's bizarre behavior. "Thanks," he muttered. He eyed Rael warily. Yes, something was _very_wrong. If it wasn't illness, it was something else. Had the Zorah finally snapped?

"Is it working?" Rael asked. He looked genuine enough. "Can you do it here?"

Koris paused. It was foolishness. He'd only done it in controlled environments, at controlled time points, and always with his assistants in the next room. His experiments… the quarians weren't ready for them. He wasn't even sure _he _was ready for them.

And yet he'd been working in secret for so very long. Trying to drag his people into a new direction – without success – for so very long. As much as he hated Rael, the chance to share his secret, to show _somebody _that he was right, was impossible to resist. The future of the race would come from quarians like Koris, not Rael. Somebody needed to see that. Somebody needed to be on his side, for once.

He made his decision instantly.

Koris stood up and peered around to see if anyone was watching. The shuttle was mostly empty but for a shipment of waste headed to the Liveships for processing – only a handful of other quarians were aboard, and those that were looked suitably distracted.

He slumped back in his seat, satisfied. Rael's eyes followed him as he reached behind his helmet, feeling the smooth metal there. His heart was racing as he felt for the latches, his fingers settling into the familiar grooves. Forty years of training had put an instinctual terror in him that screamed now, twisting his guts into knots of anxiety.

He ignored it, taking a deep breath.

And he unlatched his visor with a _click._It came off easily in his hand.

The open air of the shuttle rushed in to meet him so fast it almost made him nauseous. The air was shockingly cold on his plates. Smells and feelings and tastes assaulted his senses, unfamiliar and so powerful and _real._Koris had to clench his tearing eyes shut, willing his dizziness away as he drank in the sensory assault that was breathing without a helmet.

Slowly, slowly his heart rate calmed, and he opened his eyes. Through the itching and burning Rael stared at him, expressionless, and Koris was struck by how much more vibrant the colors on the Admiral's suit looked when not viewed behind glass.

Then Koris could take no more, and slammed his mask back on so fast he nearly caught his finger in the seal. There was a familiar hiss as the suit's vacuums returned him to pressure. The world dimmed and grayed immediately. His throat, his eyes, his face felt like they were on fire and he took great, gasping breaths, fighting to force the air down through swollen nostrils. Just a few seconds without his mask had taken it all out of him, and he leaned down to put his head between his knees, resisting the urge to retch into his helmet.

"It works, then," Rael said, voice even.

The filters in Koris' helmet did their job and the fire on his skin started to abate under a mist of antiallergenic chemicals. "Slo-" he tried to speak, but had to swallow heavily around his inflated tongue. "Slowly," he managed, trying to muster the will to sit back up. "I feel less awful each time I take it off." As demonstration, he gave a heave and slumped back into his seat. Tears still streamed down his face, and he forced a confident smile that he didn't feel. "M-my immune system is getting stronger."

The idea had come from him after reading old documents – written by some of the scientists who'd survived the war with the geth – cataloging their first observations of the collective weakening of the quarian immune systems. They'd been scared, confused, and yet they had remembered life on Rannoch, had a perspective that modern quarians lacked. In the waning years of the quarian biological community – before such specialized science had been all but taken over by the Admiralty Board's Special Projects division – the consensus had been clear: quarians were getting sick because they were too clean, too careful, too afraid of getting sick.

And the solution, as dangerous as it was, was obvious.

"Have you tried an actual infection yet?"

"Not yet," Koris admitted, mind vividly recalling the first time he'd taken off his mask, alone in his bunk. How he'd lasted less than a second in the open air before his fear had gotten the better of him and he'd closed it again. How awful the following hours had been. How confident he'd been that he'd just killed himself. And that had just been antigens from the air – dust and engine grease and old powder and dead skin cells. An actual pathogen – a real infection – would be a million times worse. "I'm not confident I'd survive it. But soon."

Rael nodded and looked away.

Koris did not return to his seat. He sat next to Rael, head a storm of thoughts. He had kept his plans a secret, but his months of continued sickness had been enough clue for Rael to figure out what was going on. He wondered how many others knew what he'd been up to. Ever since it had become clear that what he was doing was actually working – that he was getting less sick each time – he had been contemplating how and when he wanted to reveal his discovery.

The quarians weren't ready for it. They wouldn't believe him unless he provided a powerful enough example. Something big and romantic and memorable, something grandiose enough to make them forget about Rael for a while. He'd take off his helmet for all to see, right in the middle of a Conclave session.

If he survived that long.

The fact that he'd managed to impress _Rael _of all people spoke well of his plan. Koris actually felt a twinge of pride as he re-ran his suit's diagnostics. He could feel his throat tightening a bit more already as his immune system overreacted to some unknowable mote in the air, but somehow he was sure it had been worth it. It was the first step to getting his people on a new homeworld. Getting them their pride, their hope back.

"I told you," he said. "I told you you were going about it the wrong way."

Rael turned to look at him, brows raised. "Congratulations," he said. "Your twenty years as Admiral has now produced two good ideas total."

"By your count, Rael."

Some of Rael's old confidence seemed to return to him. Koris could see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, if only for a second. "I'm not aware of any other counts that matter."

"Bosh'tet."

Rael returned to looking out the window. "Just keep doing what you're doing, Koris," he said. "You'll get to three someday."

–

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride. They disembarked the shuttle in silence and went their separate ways to catch rides back to their own parts of the fleet. As amicable as Rael was acting, Koris knew nothing had changed – they were still rivals. Enemies, even. Come the next Conclave session, Rael would be dashing apart Koris' hard-earned efforts yet again, and everybody would love him for it while Koris sat at the back, sick and furious.

But all the same, he couldn't help but worry for his fellow Admiral as Rael climbed into the small shuttle that would take him back to the _Alarei._

* * *

_8 days previously…_

_–_

Admiral Rael'Zorah vas _Rayya _lied on the floor of his own ship, his life seeping away around him.

Above him loomed the geth. One of the geth he himself had reassembled – from the wiring on its shoulder he recognized it as the platform he and his team had designated Ecco-6. It was more or less complete, cobbled together from a half dozen separate geth components Tali had sent them.

And it held one of the quarians' own rifles in its hands.

It stared down at him with its unblinking eye, watching his blood leak.

Rael sighed. The pain didn't bother him, somehow. He'd never been shot before but he'd always imagined it to be excruciating. But now he was shot thrice and he barely felt it at all. It had hurt when he'd dragged himself out into the middle of the corridor so he'd be easy to find, but that feeling had passed, and now the mess that had been his stomach was numb but for a creeping, cold sensation.

Ecco-6 watched in silence, its featureless face betraying nothing.

"I suppose you've killed them all by now," Rael said.

Ecco-6 tilted its eyebrow vanes in an unmistakable gesture of confusion.

Rael actually laughed at that. They were smarter than he'd anticipated. Koris, the damnable bastard, had actually been right. It was hard to imagine. Of course, Rael had always known they were smart – the quarians had not been kicked from their planet by mere automatons – and yet to see them now… They spoke to one another. They watched and listened and learned. As he lied dying he'd seen several geth pass – no doubt coming from slaughtering one of his team or another – with an air of intense curiosity about them. They'd looked at him and bruzzed at one another, investigated every console on every wall, touched every button, ran their fingers over every wall. They were like children.

Rael swallowed and tasted blood.

He'd had his doubts for a while now, ever since a week or two, the first time the miniature geth consensus they'd assembled managed to turn itself on without any quarian help. Perhaps he'd made a mistake in not shutting the project down immediate. But it was too late to change course. He would leave his accomplishments to speak for themselves. There was no point in changing on his deathbed. He was who he was.

And so he'd set one last plan in motion. As soon as it was clear he would not be leaving the _Alarei _alive, he'd sent Natal to the comm room to call for help. By now she would be dead too, but if Rael had been right (and he was very rarely wrong) she would have called her _other _boss Xen with the information first.

Rael didn't like the idea of Xen getting his work. He didn't like the idea of Xen thinking her spy had gone undetected. He'd always planned some gleefully vindictive vengeance, something that would show Xen she was not so clever as she believed, and aside from which had been feeding Natal false reports to send Xen's way for months.

But if he was dead, Xen was the only one who could continue for him. And his work had to continue. Xen would not let the _Alarei _be destroyed, not in a thousand circuits. She would gloat over his corpse and finally feel like she'd won, but that was the price he had to pay.

Rael sighed and closed his eyes, satisfied. Xen would finish the job. Now all he had to do was die and his part was over.

He sat and waited and waited.

Death came only slowly, and Rael found himself checking his omni-tool again. A light blinked on his wrist, signaling that the message he'd recorded for Tali was ready. She would be on the _Alarei _within a few days – Xen would make sure of that – and she would find his body and she would find his message and she would know how to stop the geth networks on the bridge.

Rael had said what he needed to say. His daughter was smart. She would know what to do.

The light blinked in silence, waiting to be heard again.

Rael sighed. There was still space. He could still add something. Tell her he loved her. Tell her about her mother, or… or something. Something to soften the blow. He knew Raan would want him to. Ykala would want him to.

Rael turned his omni-tool off with a wave and laid his head back.

He didn't deserve the self-delusion of a tearful, loving goodbye. He hadn't been a good father in life, and trying to pretend he was a good one in death reeked of desperation. Tali knew he loved her or she didn't.

It was too late to try to change that.

Ecco-6 continued to stare in silence, and Rael found himself wondering what was going on inside its 'mind'. The other geth had looked at him and then moved on, as if he were nothing more than another of the _Alarei's _many appliances. But Ecco stayed. Maybe it'd been commanded to guard him, make sure he didn't do anything. Or maybe it was just interested.

Either way, it was obvious it wasn't moving until Rael died.

Somehow that made him feel a little better.

* * *

_21 years previously…_

_–_

Rael'Zorah was very late by the time he returned to the _Rayya._

He'd always suffered from spreading himself to thinly, from tackling too many projects at once. When he was younger, when he worked for Admiral Tega, throwing himself entirely into his work had been fine, had cost him nothing. With Tega's resources as head of Special Projects, he'd had the galaxy at his fingertips, and his staff had quickly bloomed to dozens. He'd spent very nearly every moment moving from one research team to another, reviewing results, establishing new directions, and moving on. It had been exhilarating.

Now Tega had retired and _he _was Admiral, with a host of new responsibilities that had very little to do with research. He'd picked a successor to help lighten the load, of course, a talented young quarian named Zletl'Zorah who worked very hard to please him, but once he'd gotten Zletl started on his own projects he'd never quite managed that next step of lightening up on any of his own. He'd only pushed himself harder.

Now, on today of all days, an experiment in one of his labs had run nine hours late and he'd had no choice but to stay with it.

He arrived at the clean room. His station as admiral had afforded them a very fine one, more than spacious enough, new and clean and most importantly, _safe._ The seals had all just been replaced, the life support system was well maintained. There was a small window in the clean room's side. Normally shuttered for privacy, now it was open, and Rael peered through.

Rael had been accused of being heartless before, but he knew that was not so, for there inside the cleanroom was his heart. Ykala was sleeping, reclining on a small white cot, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Instead of her suit she wore only a thin white gown, soaked in disinfectant. Rael could see her bare arms and legs, her dark skin, her marvelous quills, her _face_ as he had only seen them a half dozen times before. She was beautiful.

Though not half so beautiful as the infant slumbering peacefully in her grip. Rael craned his neck, trying to get a better look at his new child.

"It's a girl. Tali'Zorah nar _Rayya._"

Rael had not noticed Raan – in a gown matching his wife's – sitting on the other end of the clean room, and he did not look at her now. "Tali," he said to himself, testing the name on his tongue. It was a lovely name. He stared down at his daughter. She was lighter and purpler than her mother, but shared the speckled pattern that ran down Ykala's back and legs. "Any complications?" he asked.

Raan stood and approached the window. "None, Rael," she said, smiling. "They're both doing well."

Rael nodded, relieved.

"Do you want to come in?" Raan asked. "Give me a few minutes to suit up and I can leave you three alone."

Rael shook his head. "No time," he admitted, ignoring the frown on his old friend's face. Entering that clean-room – even with Ykala – would almost certainly put him out of commission for a week or two, at least. He could not afford to be sick. Not with so much going on. "I am an Admiral."

"So am I," Raan reminded him.

"So one Admiral's absence strikes me as sufficient," Rael said. "I have work to do." He nodded resolutely and, with one last look at his slumbering wife and daughter, turned to go. "I will visit soon," he promised, and left Raan staring after him.

–

As soon as he was out of Raan's earshot, he summoned his omni-tool and called Zletl's tag. It took his second-in-command some minutes to respond, but finally his voice appeared on the other end, sounding exhausted. No doubt Rael had awoken him from much-deserved sleep.

Rael didn't care.

"Sir?"

"Zletl," Rael commanded, walking down the empty corridors of the _Rayya _back towards the shuttle bay. "I want you to have the _Alepso _and the _Alarei_ cleared out for use on a new geth project."

"What about the _Moreh?_" Zletl asked. "There's still a whole unoccupied deck, we could fit a whole new lab in th-"

"We are going to work on some new ideas," Rael said, in a tone of voice that brokered no argument. "VI simulations will not be sufficient."

"Yes sir."

Rael nodded. "Good. And Zletl? Quietly, please." He terminated the call as he arrived at the shuttle bay, where a single pilot was awaiting his return, tiredly fiddling with a datapad while he waited. They wasted no time boarding the shuttle, and in thirty seconds they were off to Rael's next destination.

In the shuttle, Rael leaned his head back on his seat and closed his eyes. He had not slept in days, and it was beginning to drag on him. But now he felt alive, invigorated as he rarely did. His closed eyelids only looked like his new family, serene and happily sleeping in their cleanroom. Rael's thoughts were by turns dominated by his daughter and his new ideas for the geth.

It was time to start getting serious about this whole 'retaking Rannoch' issue. He was a father now.

**–**

* * *

**Codex entry: the **_**vas **__**Nayctah**_** Rebellion**

The _vas Nayctah _Rebellion – more commonly known, now, as the _Nayctah _Schism – was a series of short skirmishes that occurred in the late months of 2157 between rival factions within the quarian Flotilla. Motivated by racial and political tension, the rebellion resulted in almost ten thousand quarian deaths, making it the largest single disaster in recent quarian history.

At its core, the Schism was a conflict between the Qilahran, a quarian racial group originally native to Rannoch's southern continents, and the rest of the fleet, and more broadly a conflict of ideals between civilian quarian government and the militant families and what was perceived as an overmilitant, overzealous Admiralty Board. The conflict began with the spread of a cult on the Qilahran-dense _Nayctah, _a large, populated ship in the Civilian Fleet. The cultists – who ultimately rallied Qilahran-descended quarians and other disaffected groups throughout the Fleet – came to call themselves the Keelhn – "Guarded Ones" in Khelish.

The _Nayctah _cultists' rise to power is traditionally blamed on the re-publication of sensor data from a remote probe that had been dispatched to Rannoch in 2101. The probe B8B8 – the only such probe out of dozens launched to reach Rannoch intact – managed to surveil the planet for three years before being rendered nonfunctional by a desert storm. Video data captured by B8B8 offered the first convincing proof that the geth had abandoned Rannoch's surface. Based on satellite readings taken of Rannoch's Tikkun system, quarian analysts concluded (correctly) that the geth had relocated to space stations in orbit around the planet and B8B8's data was forgotten for almost six decades.

In 2156, however, the surveillance footage was rediscovered by So'Kal vas _Nayctah. _So'Kal – a devout follower of a largely-extinct quarian religion centered around worshipping the God Qilah'Keeltahn – interpreted the images in a very different way; believing that the lack of geth habitation was proof that the geth had fled Rannoch under the fiery wrath of Qilah'Keeltahn, and that the promised land walled gardens of Rannoch were empty and safe, waiting for the quarians to return. Recapturing Rannoch, then, became only a simple matter of dealing with any minor geth space presence and landing. Over the coming weeks, So'Kal would ultimately convince more than one hundred thousand quarians of his ideas, and became the nucleus of the _Nayctah _cults.

While the religious backbone was critical to the _Nayctah_cultists' rebellion, the move was strongly political as well. At the time, three of the five Admirals were considered harshly militant, including two sisters from the Vael family who commanded the Heavy and Patrol fleets. These admirals effectively managed to control the Board's decisions, and, under the Vael sisters' now-famous bellicosity, exerted a level of influence over the Conclave that had not been seen since the escape from Rannoch. In the years preceding the rebellion, the Conclave – and many other quarian groups – became increasingly anti-Admiralty Board and anti-Vael, ultimately prompting the Admirals to begin cracking down on captains themselves in an effort to protect their power.

The rebellion began in earnest in 2156, when So'Kal vas _Nayctah_, with the help of his many supporters, managed to get elected to the Conclave. He called upon the quarians – most particularly those descended from the Qilahran but also any groups disaffected by the martial law of the fleet – to return with him in a grand migration back to Rannoch, with or without military escort. He called for a shedding of the martial law, which, most importantly, included excluding the majority of the Heavy fleet and many of its most prominent families like the Vael, Zorah, Reegar, Gerrel, Gossit, and Canbeh from his grand plan. The plan – especially the lack of military might – was seen as suicide by much of the quarian military, who argued that a premature attempt to return to Rannoch would be disastrous for the entire species.

In 2157 Keelhn cultists shocked the fleet to its core with a daring dual-pronged attack on the Liveship _Crennae _and the battleship _Aolenn'vasha_. Both ships – caught unaware – were captured in a matter of hours and pulled away from the Heavy Fleet. This demonstration of power began the rebellion, and within hours the Admiralty Board had dispatched its forces and declared So'Kal and many of his lieutenants treasonous. Both the _Crennae _and _Aolenn'vasha _were recaptured in battles which accounted for some 90% of the ten thousand or so of the rebellion's fatalities. The _Nayctah _cultists were dealt a considerable blow, but So'Kal and most of his lieutenants managed to escape into hiding.

While both sides began preparing for a lengthy conflict, the rebellion ended as suddenly and unexpectantly as it had begun when, Shala'Raan, a Conclave representative on the rebel ship the _Siovvani_ discovered that her fellow representatives were in collusion with So'Kal and were smuggling him into a coming session, along with thousands of pounds of fuel stolen from the _Aolenn'vasha_. The quarian managed to sabotage the air filters on the other representatives' clean rooms before fleeing to the loyalist _Tonbay _to warn Admiral Ala'Vael vas Tonbay, who rallied her forces and captured So'Kal and his colluders. So'Kal himself died in the following days of a wound sustained in the skirmish, before he could be tried, but he was posthumously branded a traitor and stricken from his homeships' ledgers.

Ultimately, the entire crews of 19 rebel ships, as well as large sections of the crews of 11 others, were called traitors and sentenced to exile after a single trial before the Admiralty Board. The exiles were immediately appealed by the sympathetic Conclave, prompting the Admiralty Board to veto the appeals, upholding the exile of 1186 quarians and resigning their positions in the process. Of the 1186 exiles, 1183 were upheld by the new Admiralty Board, which consisted of Shala'Raan vas _Tonbay_, Pel'Gossit vas _Onager_, Kela'Ayley vas _Chaddra_, Gennd'Tega vas _Konal, _and Lestra'Col vas _Nyara._

The rebellion is mostly looked back on with disdain by modern quarians, though some Qilahran quarians still hold a deep resentment. The Admiralty Board's power – and especially the ability of single families to hold monopolies over governmental branches – was effectively curtailed, and the Vael family suffered considerably for what was perceived as their role in the conflict. Many remnants of the original rebel factions now band together under the Outrider's Coalition and lobby for the search for new homeworlds.

–

* * *

**A/N: **Another chapter! And, naturally, it had to be gigantic. I was worried maybe I was updating too fast for you guys. *rimshot*

Anywho, if I were doing this again, I might not write this chapter. I am mighty fond of the quarian Admirals, but standing here and looking back at this huge pain-in-the-ass of a chapter, it feels a little off-topic. That said, I think Zaal'Koris and Han'Gerrel (namely, that Zaal is a douche but right and Gerrel is kindly but wrong) represent one of the few truly, awesomely compelling moral decisions in the Mass Effect series.

As usual, I must thank my betas, my readers, my reviewers, etc. Also koobismo for his insights regarding writing Shala'Raan. This time, however, I also have the privilege to thank **hcjung10**, whose generosity blows me away. Seriously, man – I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

As for next chapter – turns out it was a fun one. I won't tell you who the POV is, but I _will _tell you that it will finally, _finally _give you some insight into Miranda's fate. You must sit in suspense for a bit longer.


	25. Chapter 25, Grandiloquence, Miranda

**Grandiloquence – Miranda Lawson**

* * *

_17 days previously…_

–

Miranda's left thumb made an audible snapping sound as she slammed it over the bed railing.

* * *

_11 minutes previously..._

_–_

"Garrus?"

The voice caught Miranda sleeping. It echoed from some far off corner of her imagination and her dreams gave a plot-twisting whirl to accommodate it. Miranda scowled in her sleep at the loss. It was a rare night when she dreamed at all - aside from the weird gray dreams of induced sleep - and the vibrancy now was striking to her. How long had it been since she'd slept without machine assistance? Two years?

Miranda screwed up her eyes and tried to roll over and recapture the lost threads.

There was a knocking sound. "Garrus? Are you there?"

_Garrus._ Even half-asleep, the name colored her fleeting dreams with a foul taste. Sly bastard. Poisoning her. The thought seemed to remind her that she felt like death, every nerve numb, every muscle drained. Chemical exhaustion. That meant the gas had probably been teranax or cohexisol, some kind of respiratory agent. Somehow that seemed obvious, though why it mattered she could not recall.

The knocking continued from somewhere in the distance. Details continued to invade Miranda's mind. It was bright. Even through closed eyes the glow of incandescent bulbs was inescapable.

The voice kept calling. "Hello?"

Realization struck all at once and Miranda awoke with a start, sitting up so fast she caught against her handcuffs. They dug into her skin, yanking her back onto the bed with a painful jerk that left her hissing in pain and surprise. She grimaced at the metal cuffs cinched tightly around her wrists, blinking in the dazzling light so bright it stung her eyes.

She remembered.

Garrus. Poison. The _Normandy._

Fear - genuine fear - prickled at her skin as the voice at the door continued to call. There was a door, and someone behind it. Someone coming for her. She was suddenly acutely aware of the emptiness at the back of her collar where her amp usually rested, and she could feel the slight breeze of air vents on her exposed arm from where her glove - and more importantly, the omni-tool sewn within it - had been torn away.

So she was suffering the effects of a poisoning, both hands manacled and with no biotics, no omni-tool, and no gun.

And someone was coming for her.

Where was she? Her head felt like a great, opaque fog as she took in her surroundings.

She was in a bed. Not her own bed (and she must have been poisoned indeed to fall asleep anywhere else – she'd even had the Hephaestus Cell engineers drag her bed from Lazarus station into her quarters before the mission had begun), or an inducting pod or even a human bed at all. A turian bed, more like a bowl-shaped couch with hard pads that swept to match the rounded curve of a turian's shell. She was not tall enough to lean her head over the crest-rest on the top, but her feet dangled from the bottom edge, just grazing the floor.

Her mind calculated restlessly. She was in a turian apartment, presumably belonging to Garrus. Which probably put her somewhere on Aroch Ward, where the turian had worked before moving his operations to Omega. Aroch Ward was mostly dominated by industrial buildings and only a few major residential neighborhoods, most of which were either too human-dominated or too expensive to be likely candidates for a young turian without a great deal of money. Likelier neighborhoods were clustered near the Presidium end. The _Normandy – _assuming it was still being repaired and the fool turian hadn't taken off as soon as she was gone – was waiting in a bay near the tip of Bachjret Ward. It would take almost an hour to make her way back if she started now.

And she was cuffed. She recognized the Elkoss Combine model, standard issue to C-Sec agents for restraining most sentient species. They were cinched to both wrists, just tight enough not to lacerate, and threaded through a steel eyelet, welded to the wall above her head. She did not bother straining against them again – they were built to hold batarians three times her strength.

The person she'd heard calling had fallen silent.

Miranda took a deep breath. Her lungs burnt. Her whole body still felt numb from the gas attack, tingling like it had fallen asleep on her. She didn't have long to be upset about that, for there was a click and the apartment door slid open, revealing a red-haired human woman in a green skirt.

"Garrus?" The woman took a tentative step into the room, blinking in the light. Miranda sized her up. The woman was unarmed but for a handbag. Her accent suggested Earthborn, in the EU. Or possibly one of the French-descended colonies on Benning. She was groomed. Dolled up.

Not a threat.

That meant she was either here by accident or because Garrus had sent her to make sure Miranda didn't choke on her own vomit. She wasn't sure which she thought was more likely.

But it didn't matter. She could help. "He's not here," Miranda said. Her voice was slurred, raspy as if she'd been ill, and it made the red-haired woman jump in surprise. The woman's eyes grew wide as they landed on Miranda, and a bit wider yet when they traced up to the manacles around her wrists.

She stammered, dumbfounded.

Miranda frowned, impatient. "…Well?"

"Oh my goodness!" the woman finally exclaimed as her mind caught up with her. She tossed her purse onto one of the shelves and rushed to kneel at Miranda's side. "What happened? Are you alright?" She held a finger under Miranda's chin, feeling her pulse.

"I'm fine," Miranda insisted, shaking her chin away from the woman's grip.

"What happened?" the woman repeated, staring into Miranda's eyes and mouth and prodding at her ribs with a practiced efficiency that made it clear she was some kind of medical professional. Which meant Garrus _had _sent her. Miranda bristled at that thought.

Miranda rolled her eyes as the doctor set an ear to her chest, listening for lung damage. "I forgot the safe word," she deadpanned.

The woman looked up at her like she'd grown a second head. "R…Really?"

Miranda rolled her eyes again. "No, not _really_. I was abducted." She resisted the urge to snap, instead gesturing to her cuffs. The woman stood to check them, pulling each one gently (as if Miranda had not already tried _pulling_ – Miranda had to roll her eyes a third time). "I've been poisoned by cohexisol or one of its variants," Miranda continued. "A turian knockout gas. Are you familiar with it?"

The woman looked down at her, confused. "…Yes," she said after a moment, nodding. "Lots of turian mercs carry it. I see lots of accidental exposure cases. There's a general inhibitor in the medbay. If I had my kit-"

"Go get it," Miranda insisted, impatient.

The woman took no umbrage at her tone and nodded. "The medbay's not far," she said. "It will take me twenty minutes if I hurry." She jangled Miranda's cuffs gently, "and I don't see these coming off any time s-"

"Go," Miranda commanded. "_Now."_

The woman did not protest and headed for the door, stopping at the threshold to call up her omni-tool from within the bracelet on her wrist.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Calling C-Sec."

Miranda shook her head. Bloody wonderful. "_No_. No C-Sec." She did notwant any C-Sec entanglement. It would damage her covers with Cerberus, and Garrus might have had old C-Sec allies waiting for her. It wasn't like The Illusive Man could not bail her out of whatever C-Sec came up with – even if they knew who she was – but all the red tape would take time. And she needed to get back onto the _Normandy. Now._

The woman stared at her. "I have to," she said, voice apologetic. "It's the law."

"No you don't," Miranda insisted, trying to shift upright to look more commanding (it was hard to intimidate while chained onto an alien bed). She stared hard at the medic, infusing as much iron as she could into her gaze. "_Don't_," she commanded.

The medic shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said.

* * *

_Presently..._

_–_

Miranda had wasted no time. Before the medic was done talking to C-Sec, she'd formed a plan. And as soon as the medic had rushed off and she was alone, she'd carried it out.

She put the break right in the middle of her left thumb's proximal phalange. It hadn't taken much force - the human body (even hers) was so very fragile - and it broke cleanly enough to minimize convalescence time. With her rapid healing gene mods it would be back to full functionality in a matter of weeks.

But right now, the pain was immense. Miranda had bit down on one of Garrus' sleeping pads to keep from calling out, but she'd called out all the same. Her hand was on fire, pulsing with agony so severe her eyes teared up. All the dull exhaustion in her limbs was instantly replaced with white hot pain. Just looking at her thumb, splayed out at an obscene angle, made her want to pass out.

But there was no other way.

For a long moment she laid in her shackles, too paralyzed by the pain to move, but eventually mind caught up and she slowly, slowly pulled her broken hand through the cuff. The slightest bump against the cuff's rim sent new jolts of pain lancing up her arm.

And then she was out. She left the cuffs dangling from her right hand as she finally pulled herself to a sitting position, cradling her broken hand in her lap, and took in her surroundings again.

Even though her eyes had acclimated, the lights in the ceiling were painfully bright – Miranda could just see the hint of purple-black of the UV strips, and wondered if she had gotten a sunburn yet. Turians liked it bright to the point of ridiculousness – it reminded them of home – but Miranda could barely see in the glare. The whole apartment was glowing, the various supplies and personal errata hanging on recessed shelves in every wall glinted like precious stones.

Still, Miranda caught the blinking of a digital clock display that flashed on the wall.

_8:32:01pm CST 18:200 Palaven, _it read.

The calculation was instantaneous. Garrus had attacked her on the Normandy at three oh four and eighteen seconds (she remembered the instant perfectly) in the morning. She'd been out more than seventeen hours. In a normal human, cohexisol had a halflife of nine point one hours – in her it should have been even faster. She should have been conscious hours ago. She should have been back on the _Normandy _already. She was behind schedule.

She crunched the numbers. Presidium end of Aroch to the far end of Bachjret would take…

She frowned.

One hundred eighty nine minutes.

More than three hours - at least - to find a taxi to a shuttleport (sixteen minutes), clear customs (twenty at least without the programs in her omni-tool to trick the biometrics), take the shuttle (no fewer than thirty one assuming everyone could find their bloody seats without screwing with the overhead bins, and how likely was that? She called it ninety) and another taxi to the _Normandy _(eleven). Even then she'd need to get an omni-tool – call it another ten minutes. And it would not do to walk back onto the _Normandy _only to be taken out by Garrus again. She could not be caught unprepared. She'd need a gun – maybe another twelve minutes – and if the state of her limbs was any indication she'd need to neutralize the toxin in her body, another thirty at least in a medbay.

One hundred eighty nine minutes. And that wasn't even counting her morning routine, which she'd need to do as soon as she regained the strength to get out of the bed.

_No._

Twenty minutes, the medic had said. Twenty minutes until she came back. C-Sec would be even faster. Miranda _had _to be gone by then.

Miranda bit back her pain and set to work. The exercises would wait.

All the same, she began to mumble the names of Alliance ships.

_SSV Elbrus, SSV Everest, SSV Fuji, SSV Aconcagua…_

Garrus' apartment was typically Spartan for a turian – aside from the bed the only piece of furniture was a stiff, perch-like chair next to a cheap wall console. The ceiling lights glowed fiercely down on her as she finally lurched to her feet and prowled around the room looking for her lost omni-tool and amp. She felt naked, helpless without them.

But if Garrus had hidden them in the apartment, she couldn't see where. In true turian fashion, everything Garrus owned was on full display on shelves that dominated every wall. There were no closets, no cases, no cupboards or lockboxes. Everything was out to be seen, from medals and datapads to an old broken omni-tool and even an crumpled aluminum bottle of some kind of dextro Tupari. There was a container of plate polish and well-worn files and cases of heat sinks and a few lonely dishes. All the refuse of an underpaid turian had collected on all of it, like it had not been touched in years, but for the shelves where Garrus kept his guns. Those had obviously just been emptied for her visit, even though most turian weapons were too large and unwieldy for a human to get much use out of.

Garrus feared her. That made her smile despite herself. He'd left her alive, had sent the medic to find her, but he still knew enough to know she wouldn't take this insult lying down.

He still knew enough to fear her.

He feared many things – or at least he had – if his apartment was any indication. Miranda noticed the empty tripods he'd set up next to both windows, the closed-circuit security feeds of the streets outside still hooked to his console, the way his bed's inducers were set down to the lowest setting. It was obvious the turian had been expecting an attack when last he lived here. It was pathetic, in a way.

Though of course there _was _a reason he was on the _Normandy _right now and she wasn't. Even if he'd had to resort to cheap trickery, he _had _beaten her. Abducting her had been a stupid move and she would make him pay for it, but it would not do to go underestimating him again.

Miranda never made the same mistake twice.

Miranda's thumb was starting to swell and bruise purple across her pale skin by the time she'd moved onto the Alliance cruisers (_SSV Alexandria, SSV Almadabad, SSV Cairo) _and she gave up on finding her omni-tool. Claiming a talon knife from one shelf, she cut a long strip out of Garrus' bedding. She held the strip in her teeth, cradling her broken hand between her knees.

She realigned the broken digit with a crack.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she splinted her thumb against the side of her hand and wrapped it, tying it as tightly as she could bear. Another strip of bedding made for a suitable enough sling, but it took several attempts to tie with only one hand.

By the time she'd gotten her sling assembled the pain was so intense she nearly blacked out again, and she had to take a seat on the weird chair-perch by the console to catch her breath and wait for the spots to stop swimming in her vision. Ship names continued to filter by.

Two more ships – _SSV Tokyo, SSV Warsaw – _finished off the cruisers and she checked the clock again. _8:40:22pm CST 18:218 Palaven, _it read. Twelve minutes until the medic returned, by her own estimate. It was time to go. She let herself out of the room, pausing only briefly to sweep the note the turian had left – _'Chloe, Sorry for the deception. I'll make it up to you.' _– onto the floor.

_Demeter colony, established 2152 by Delta Pavonis Foundation in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Cybele, population six hundred eighty nine thousand. Agriculture._

She stopped at the door as she realized her mind had moved onto the next part of her routine without her. She found herself turning to look at the empty floor by the bed. It was clean, and plenty big enough for her morning exercises. It called out to her.

_Terra Nova colony, _her mind continued on. _established 2152 by Kobold Astrogeo in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Scott, population four million, one hundred fifty thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing._

"No," she said to herself, tearing her gaze away from the floor. C-Sec was coming and her thumb throbbed with pain and she had to get back onto the _Normandy _before it took off without her. "I am in control."

But she wasn't, and she knew it. Her mind kept going with a vengeance. _Eden Prime colony, established 2152 by Pehl-Draven Company in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Constant, population four million, two hundred eleven thousand. Agriculture._

Miranda hovered at the threshold of the door as the guilt started to settle in. She couldn't abandon her exercises. She'd woken up, she'd gotten out of bed. Next came exercises. That was... that was just what she did. That was what she'd done since she was two, rain or shine or snow. She'd done it in Lawson Manor, she'd done it during her Cerberus training, she'd done it every morning on Lazarus station, sometimes right in the lab. She'd done it on the _Normandy. _Her whole life. Every day. Wake, get out of bed, exercises. No excuses for broken thumbs or incorrigible turians. She checked the clock again. _8:41:56pm CST 18:219 Palaven. _The Normandy was seriously damaged - more damaged than 17 hours could fix. It would not have left yet. She had time.

"_No,_" she repeated, more forcibly. She couldn't take that chance. "No time." She'd already got the ships done. Maybe she could do the rest on the taxi. That would have to be good enough.

_Shanxi colony, established 2153 by Jinshang Expeditions in the Aethon Cluster. Capital Taiyuan, population four hundred fifty eight thousand. Tourism and manufacturing. Amaterasu colony, established 2158 by Czarnobog Fleet Expeditions Incorporated in the Gemini Sigma. Capital Kojiki, population one million, two hundred ninety two thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing. Bekenstein colony, established 2158 by Mason Aeronautical in the Serpent Nebula. Capital Milgrom, population five million, four hundred twenty five thousand. Manufacturing._

Her stomach started to feel fuzzy in a way that had nothing to do with the cohexisol.

_Arvuna colony, established 2160 by Crescendo Explorations in the Caleston Rift. Capital Asa, population nine hundred forty eight thousand. Research and energy solutions. Elysium colony, established 2160 by the Caribbean Society of Exoplanetology in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Illyria, population four million, two hundred twenty two thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing. Kofi's Moon colony, established 2160 by Transelm Company in the Ismar Frontier. Capital Ananas, population seven hundred fifty three thousand. Agriculture and energy solutions. Mindoir colony, established 2161 by Diony Horizons in The Shadow Sea. Capital Dromor, population eight hundred seventy eight thousand. Agriculture. Akuze colony, established 2165 by Hai-Shulud Geology in Gemini Sigma. Capital Nelida. Destroyed in 2177._

The battle was already lost.

Miranda walked back into the room.

–

She was at Ferris Fieldswhen C-Sec found her.

–

There was no clock in the office so Miranda kept time in her head. She had long ago memorized all of the C-Sec rulebooks, so she knew the two officers who were processing her had followed every... bloody... step. She'd been visited by a doctor (eighteen minutes), then a separate toxicologist who _finally _gave her a cohexisol inhibitor (twelve minutes). She'd been advised of her rights (eight minutes), photographed (fourteen minutes), and run through biometrics _three times_ (three, eight, and twenty-four minutes, respectively).

Now they'd moved onto the questioning. By her count it was one hundred and eighteen minutes they'd wasted for her so far.

And it looked like they were just getting started.

The asari officer's tattooed brows were knitted in frustration as she paced the room looking for the right question to ask. "Do you know anyone on Aroch ward?" she asked. Her voice was gentle but Miranda could hear the edge underneath – she was getting tired. "Maybe you do business with someone here?"

Miranda met her gaze without flinching. "My name is Sayleigh Walker," she said, the same five words she'd been saying for one hundred eighteen minutes now. Her biometrics had come up negative - all three times - and so without her omni-tool she was just a woman without a name but the one she supplied. Miranda was glad Garrus had had the foresight to rip the Cerberus logo from her uniform.

The asari sighed, exasperated. "So you've told me."

At the far end of the room a turian shrugged. "I told you, Anla. We're not going to get anything else out of her. Humans are stubborn. Especially Alliance humans."

Anla shook her head. "She's not Alliance."

"She almost certainly is."

"She's not in their records, Chellick."

Chellick shrugged again. "So she's some kind of black operations. I'm telling you, Anla, she's military. She has a military grade biotic jack on her skull, one of the sink mountings. Two hours after being drugged and abducted and who knows what, and she still hasn't said a thing but her name. And she _broke her own thumb_ to get out of those cuffs and she's not curled up bawling. Human civvies are a lot squishier than that."

Miranda did not bother tossing the turian a dark look, but stared blankly at her rebandaged thumb in the same stony silence she'd adopted since the C-Sec doctor had finished patching her up. She _was _in enormous pain, but she wasn't going to let them know that, no matter how much showmanship it took. She supposed letting the officers believe she was a little more vulnerable wouldn't be an entirely unhelpful thing - maybe they'd leave her alone - but she wasn't going to degrade herself. She would _not _act the part of the traumatized damsel, the wilting flower.

Anla ignored her partner, leaning down to eye level with Miranda again. Her voice took on a tender quality, like she was talking to a lost child. "Listen," she said. "If you can just give us something here, ma'am - something to go on - we could get you out of here faster."

Miranda buried the spark of fury she felt at the officer's patronization. She wanted to hit someone, and it was dearly tempting to take out her anger on the asari who was wasting her time, to break out of C-Sec by force. The cohexisol inhibitor had done its job and Miranda already felt worlds better, more than ready to fight. As long as she disabled the asari's biotics in her first attack - a proper blow to the head, or even to the alien's amp itself - she imagined she could handily incapacitate both officers without much trouble. After that, escaping the station would be a breeze.

Still**,** as much as she felt like kicking the officers' faces in she knew her best option now was to wait. Cerberus would find her, and soon. She'd seen the turian start the report under the Walker name, which would be all the clue Cerberus would need to find her.

And to be fair, as as annoying as they were, the officers were right to be wary. Miranda had come up empty on their state-of-the-art biometrics, and the name she'd given didn't show up in public records. They had every reason to doubt her, and if they ever found out who Sayleigh Walker really was, they'd have even more.

Alliance Corporal Sayleigh Walker did not show up in the Alliance's personnel records on the Citadel.

Because Alliance Corporal Sayleigh Walker was a dead woman.

Or she would be, if she'd been a _real _woman. The young, ambitious, blond-haired cadet had been invented by the Illusive Man as Miranda's longest-running cover, and as Sayleigh Miranda had worked her way into the company of the Alliance's highest echelons. She'd sat in with meetings with Admiral Hackett and Lebouf, she'd been on budget committees that gave her access to every expense report the Alliance ever filed, she'd helped secure the release or disposal of fellow Cerberus agents whose cover had been blown. She'd recruited some of the most important moles Cerberus had, men and women who fed the Illusive Man invaluable info while pretending to fly Alliance colors.

And then when Miranda had moved to Lazarus the story of Walker's death to a shuttle accident was concocted. Sayleigh Walker had been laid to rest with the same exquisite attention to detail from which her whole life had been forged, with all the proper paperwork and a funeral and even a planted corpse carrying a forged bio-scan ident-implant. Her death had made the papers back on Earth – Miranda had checked. Nobody would be looking for her now.

But if her name and bio-scan reappeared in C-Sec's database, Cerberus would notice. And they'd send help.

All she had to do was wait, so wait she would.

Though it sure felt like Cerberus was taking their bloody time.

"It's time to let her go, Anla," the turian said, sounding as impatient as Miranda felt.

Anla would not relent. "I want to know why she doesn't come up on our biometrics," she insisted, suspicion etched into her face.

"She's never been to the Citadel before," Chellick offered, counting on his talons. "She's not in the database yet. Maybe the psycho that tied her up shipped her here in a crate. Maybe _she's _psycho. You saw what she was doing when we found her. For some reason or another, she's just not in the system. It's not that unusual." Technically Miranda had been put into the Citadel security database some seventeen separate times, under seventeen separate names, but the Illusive Man's plants in C-Sec always cleared her entry when she changed skins. For day-to-day moving on the Citadel Miranda used a program in her omni-tool to attach dummy profiles to her biometric tags. It made her very hard to track, especially because C-Sec believed (quite correctly) that the scanners themselves were foolproof. "Either way, it doesn't matter," the turian continued. "The doctor says that apart from a few scratches and the thumb she's fine, and so we can't hold her here. She hasn't done anything wrong. Get her biometrics profile set up and let her _go, _Anla."

The asari shook her head, refusing to give up. "It's suspicious." She stared at Miranda as if she were trying to look right through her. "Do you know Garrus Vakarian?"

Oh, Miranda knew him alright. Better than she'd ever hoped to. But she would say nothing. She cleared her throat. "My name is Sayleigh Walker," she said, and fell silent again. The asari's face fell.

Chellick sighed. "Garrus is dead, Anla, or at least very, very far away. There's no way he's involved. Whoever did this ended up in his room by accident. Saw an abandoned apartment and took advantage."

Anla just shook her head. It was plain enough she didn't believe that.

"What we should _really _be checking out is the doctor. She might be wrapped up with that Banes character again." He gestured to the next room, where the woman who'd discovered Miranda had been briefly questioned. "Could be she was part of some trap for th-"

There was a buzz from the security system on the door and the two officers turned. Chellick leaned into the intercom button. "What is it?"

A voice on the other end answered. "Someone to pick up Ms. Walker."

Miranda kept the relief off of her face.

The officers exchanged a look as the door buzzed again and a barrel-chested man stepped through.

Solheim's usual golden locks were shaved down to the scalp, his immaculate goatee dyed a peppery gray, and his eyes gone from green to pale blue. He'd been made up to look older than he was – he looked a convincing sixty at least. His usual suit of white enameled armor was gone too, replaced by a blue dress suit. He looked for all the world like a kindly old businessman.

And yet Miranda recognized her former partner instantly.

"Sayleigh!" he called as soon as he saw her, in a voice booming with affection, and Miranda was forced to play along. He wrapped her in a crushing hug that quested just far down enough that the officers didn't question it.

Vile man.

Adam Solheim had been her partner for several months, back when she was doing wetwork for Anubis Cell. They'd made a relatively good team – both of them driven, ninety-ninth percentile soldiers who'd had the cutting edge in genetic modification and grown up with every advantage money could buy. They'd both been trained by the best, equipped by the best, led by the best. They both made regular humans look bland by comparison, they both had rocky relationships with fathers back in the EU on Earth, they both dreamed of helping humanity reach its potential. They'd been the Illusive Man's go-to team for dirty work, and had performed dangerous missions on Earth and Caleston, Invictus and Feros, Kubol and Omega.

Miranda was perfect, and Solheim was close. And ever since Feros, he did everything she said.

Still, where Miranda was disciplined, even cold, Solheim sometimes let his temper get the better of him. More than once she'd seen the man flip into a rage over the slightest provocation. Then once he'd nearly cost them the mission and Miranda had requested a new partner the very next day. As talented as Solheim was, he was unpredictable, and Miranda didn't do unpredictable.

All the same, there was no trace of Solheim's temper today. He had tears in his eyes when he finally let go of her and turned to the officers. "_Thank _you officers!" he boomed, shaking each of their hands. "I can take it from here."

Anla wore a guarded expression. "You know this woman?"

Solheim nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes." He cleared his throat as he dug into one of his suit pockets to produce an ident-card. "I'm Lieutenant Doyle with the Alliance military," he said, flashing the card. He smiled. "Out of uniform, for the time being."

Chellick checked the card over, but the asari's eyes never left Solheim's.

"Corporal Walker and I work as undercover agents for a project under Rear Admiral Carett," Solheim explained, voice neutral. "Corporal Walker was on a mission investigating a local shipping business for suspected terrorist activity when we lost contact with her. We feared the worst." He tossed another tearful look at Miranda (she resisted the urge to roll her eyes). "Believe me, all of us are overjoyed to find her unhurt." He looked down at her thumb. "Err… self-inflicted injuries notwithstanding."

"We're going to n-" Chellick started to protest.

Miranda hopped up from her seat, taking on the role Solheim had offered up for her. It wasn't what she would have chosen, but it worked well enough. "Mission details are classified," she said, glaring at Solheim. "_Lieutenant._"

Solheim nodded vigorously. "Of course, ma'am."

"I assume you've brought the documentation I need, Lieutenant?" She met Solheim's eyes, _daring _him to tell her otherwise. Hopefully forged dossiers for the two of them, something official-looking that corroborated their story without introducing too many details or compromising any of their _real _operations within the Alliance.

Solheim had much more than forged dossiers. "Of course, ma'am. Right away, ma'am," he said, eyes downcast. He dug into his suit pockets again and withdrew a datapad, handing it to Chellick. "Rear Admiral Carett's electronic signature," he explained. "Along with a demand for Corporal Walker's release. He wants to take her in to debrief as soon as possible."

Chellick held the datapad up, and Miranda could tell at once that it was genuine. Biometric-verified. The _real _Rear Admiral Carett's _real _signature was on the orders to release her. C-Sec could hardly disobey an Alliance admiral without good cause, not if they wanted to avoid an enormous political fiasco. "It looks solid, Anla," Chellick said, handing the datapad to her with a victorious flange to his voice. The asari read it, scowling like it had bit her.

Miranda did her best to keep the same scowl off of her face. As excited as she was to finally get out of this station, Solheim had gone too far. Rear Admiral Carett was one of Cerberus' biggest supporters in the Alliance, but his standing was in far too much jeopardy for Cerberus to be calling any attention to him, especially not for something as simple as intimidating two cops. Carrett was on thin ice with the Alliance as it was. He'd made a name for himself in naval wars on the Pacific a decade before First Contact – in his youth his military acumen was undeniable. But now he was an old man, obsolete, unpleasant, unapologetically bigoted. He had Cerberus' interests at heart but only until the Alliance finally managed to discharge him.

And even if his value to Cerberus could be sacrificed, if he was found out, he would jeopardize the covers of every single Alliance mole they had. He could have even compromised _Petrovsky._

Still, it was too late to change the story, and it _did _have the benefit of expedience. After pausing to send a venomous glare Solheim's way, Miranda marched to the door and tapped on the lock expectantly. "Open," she commanded.

The two officers locked eyes for a long moment, but their hands were tied and they knew it. Chellick palmed the door panel.

Miranda heard Solheim thanking the officers once again as she stalked through the door, head held high.

Somehow she knew the asari's eyes followed her out.

–

Miranda did not risk speaking until they'd made their way out to the nearest skyway, a great trench running the length of the ward and ringed with dimly-lit plazas packed with shoppers of every species. A navy blue skycar waited for them.

Miranda climbed into the passenger's seat. "That was not well handled, Adam."

Next to her, Adam Solheim had finally dropped his persona. Solheim turned his cover on and off like a switch. Even still in costume he already looked like an entirely different person – the set of his shoulders, the way he held his face, every part of the doddering old Lieutenant Doyle was gone and Adam Solheim was back. "You're out," he said, adjusting his goatee in a mirror that extended from the dash. He gave himself a satisfied nod.

"You shouldn't have forced Carett's hand. The Alliance has been trying to get rid of him for years."

Solheim shrugged. "And we've kept that from happening so far, so he owed us. I just called in the favor."

"Illusive Man isn't going to like it," Miranda warned.

"Tim'll live," Solheim said, utterly unconcerned. Miranda suppressed the flash of annoyance that ran through her to hear the Illusive Man referred to so informally. She'd heard Cerberus agents call him Tim for years (though never to his face), and she'd always _hated _it. It was a nickname for a pet or a nephew, unbefitting such a magnificent man. If Solheim noticed her offence, though, he gave no notice. "Besides," he said, grinning. "If there _is _any heat for this, it'll fall on Antonich. I'm okay with that."

Miranda shook her head.

Solheim's face softened. "You alright, Miri?"

Miranda nodded curtly. Truthfully, she was _not _alright. The soreness from the cohexisol had abated quickly enough under the inhibitor the C-Sec doctor had given her, but all the same Miranda felt awful. Drained. Tired. Her thumb throbbed. She was starving – a biotic without her amp was still a biotic, with a biotic's fast metabolism, and she hadn't eaten anything in more than a day. She needed food and rest.

Still, she could eat and rest after she'd had a very long talk with a certain turian.

Solheim gestured to a compartment in the dashboard. "New omni-tool in there for you," he said, still preening. "Picked it up on the way here." He looked at her intently.

Miranda did not look back. She'd dealt with infatuations like Solheim's before – it was best not to encourage them at all. She busied herself instead reaching into the glove compartment and drawing out the plain silver bracelet containing her new omni-tool - the same model she'd lost. Unobtrusive, hardened against electronic warfare. It cost a small fortune. Still, Miranda couldn't help but feel another stab of hate for Garrus – it would take her days to get everything reinstalled the way she liked it.

"You know Miri," Solheim continued, "After all the trouble you've caused me you could stand to be a bit more grateful. Antonich's had me and Captain Emo lookin' for you for a day and a half now."

"That's your job," Miranda reminded him, carefully slipping the omni-tool bracelet past her bandaged thumb to rest around her wrist. It felt strange on her bare wrist – her old one had been sewed into the lining of her glove – but until she could get a replacement glove from Ariake it would have to do. "Why should I be grateful for you doing your _job?_"

"Coulda taken a sick day and let Leng find you. Instead I went for the fast option."

Miranda suppressed a shudder. As little as she cared to be around her former partner again, the brooding human supremacist was even worse. She wasn't sure _anybody _actually liked Kai Leng – in confidence even the Illusive Man admitted nothing but contempt for him – but all the same Miranda had to admit the man had his uses. So long as he fulfilled them far, _far _away from her.

Miranda scowled as she activated the omni-tool and it began its initialization process. Orange panels bloomed from her wrist, flashing her with terms of service contracts that stretched all the way up her arm telling her what she could and couldn't do with her new omni-tool. "And don't oversell it," she added, changing the subject. "I've only been out for nineteen hours."

"Forthy-three hours," Solheim corrected, finally flitting his mirror back into the dash. He looked at her. "Nineteen hours and a day. Your turian friend took you for a ride _yesterday _morning."

Miranda's eyes widened.

Solheim nodded uncomfortably, grimacing.

Miranda stared at her omni-tool's internal clock. He was telling the truth. Thirty-nine hours she'd been off the _Normandy. _Almost two days. Her mind raced. Suddenly the prospects of the ship leaving without her seemed a lot more real. The _Normandy _had been severely damaged – even with Tali's help the engineers would need days to restore it – and yet they wouldn't have to restore it all the way. A few critical system fixes would be enough to get it safely through another relay to another repair dock, light years away. She calculated in her head as she called up one of Cerberus' internal networks.

Solheim nodded again. "Yeah… You think _you're _upset… Timmy's been throwing a fit."

Miranda's fingers flew across her omni-tool's haptic interface as she entered her clearance numbers and requested the _Normandy's _tracking information. "Take me back to my ship, Adam," Miranda commanded, shaking her head. She _had _to get back there. _Now._

Solheim just leaned back in his chair and sat in silence_._

The omni-tool gave a displeased blat.

_Access denied._

Miranda started. Access denied? She re-entered the information.

_Access denied._

Her mind raced. "…Adam?"

Solheim sighed. "Yeah…" He scratched the back of his shaved head. "I'm supposed to tell you you're being reassigned."

Miranda just stared at him. "…_what?_"

"To Anubis Cell," Solheim clarified. He gestured to her omni-tool. "Details should be on there."

He was right – a single file waited for her on the omni-tool's home screen. Miranda felt numb as she opened it to reveal a half dozen encrypted documents. The thickest was a dossier entitled _Person of Interest: Callen Earnest Bernein. _Miranda glossed over it, enough to see that Bernein was a nobody. An arms dealer on Bekenstein with a habit of pissing off the wrong people. The sort of man who asked for death so sincerely that Cerberus had to install an agent to protect him.

She was being taken off the _Normandy _to be a bodyguard, then. A glorified bodyguard.

For one of the few times in her life, Miranda felt speechless.

"This is…" she trailed off, staring at the briefing in disbelief. "I've been on Lazarus for almost _three years_, an-"

"Lazarus is gone, Miri."

"I've practically _run _the _Normandy, _Adam!" she said. "I… Jacob can't do this without me!"

Solheim shrugged. "Taylor will be fine. And even if not…" he shrugged again. "Timmy's orders."

Miranda felt her anger flare and she whirled on him, eyes staring daggers. "You shouldn't call him that."

Solheim just shrugged, hands held up in mock defense as she returned to reading. The next document had her cover in it. She was to pose as Hayley Toloni and apply for a job as a secretary at Bernein's company, Corvin Development.

And then never leave the man's side. Take notes, integrate herself into the company, make herself useful. And above all, make sure Bernein lived until Cerberus' business with him was concluded.

A bodyguard.

The perfect woman. Cerberus' best agent – by far – was going to be a bodyguard.

"That bad, huh?"

Miranda didn't answer. Her mouth felt numb as she turned to look at Solheim. He looked apologetic enough. She nodded, dumbstruck.

"It'll be okay," he promised her. He took a deep breath. "You just… you've just gotto do the time. The Man probably just wants you back to your roots, you know? Back to Anubis, not babysitting some Alliance kid."

Miranda was silent.

"That being the case," Solheim continued, taking a slow breath, "We have a little time before I'm supposed to put you on a shuttle to Bekenstein. Want to go track down a replacement amp before you get started?" He stared at her, eyes hopeful. "Armali has a branch on this ward. I know you like their stuff."

Miranda barely heard him. She dialed a number into her omni-tool, an old one she'd used to contact the Illusive Man before.

_Access denied_.

Miranda shook her head. "He's punishing me," she said, redialing. "I was under _orders _to cooperate with the turian. _His _orders. And then the turian attacks _me _and now he's punishing me." The omni-tool protested and disconnected again.

Solheim's shoulders fell, disappointed, but he said nothing more as he finally fingered the ignition button that started the skycar. There was a shudder as its mass effect fields came on. Console panels flitted to life, bathing the two agents in orange light as the skycar lifted out of its dock, its autopiloting software steering it upwards to merge into the traffic lanes.

"I was under orders…" Miranda repeated. Starscrapers flew past her window but she couldn't tear her eyes away from her omni-tool. "I didn't fail."

Solheim didn't look at her. "I'm not judging you," he reminded her. His voice was back to its usual business tone. "Tim is."

* * *

_15 years previously…_

_–_

At Henry Lawson's parties, even the kids' table was spectacular - twenty feet long, made of real African blackwood and polished to perfection under a red silk tablecloth. A glass sculpture of Earth – Jordennliv Solutions'logo – stood four feet high in the table's center, glittering in the afternoon light, a gold-and-sapphire stud marking the company's headquarters in the Scandinavian Peninsula. The food served was no less opulent, course after course of rare meats and pastries imported from every corner of the planet were brought out by a small legion of white-suited servants. Not a morsel was synthesized – everything was fresh, rare, untampered with. _Real _food. Like people ate in the old days.

The meal alone cost more than most people made in a month.

And yet Miranda had to force it down.

At the next table, Henry Lawson was in an animated discussion describing his trip to the Mediterranean where – he claimed – he'd met Miranda's mother. It was a tired story – he told it at almost every one of his many, many business parties – and yet his guests sat around looking rapt. Business partners from the UNAS, doctors and researchers, even an Alliance captain, all of them sat and listened to the buffoon. As if they cared.

Miranda kept eating, driving her father's lies out of her head. She supposed none of his guests saw the holes in the man's story – like that the year Miranda was born the Mediterranean States were under quarantine for a plague and no outsiders would have been allowed in – but then again, she supposed that didn't matter. They weren't there because they _liked _Henry Lawson, just as he hadn't invited them because he _liked _them. He just liked being the center of attention and the rest of them liked to latch onto his underbelly.

Unfortunately, Henry also liked _Miranda _to be the center of attention. At her table she had her own bevy of guests she was supposed to be entertaining. Across from her was twelve-year-old William Richter, a little blonde-haired moron in an eight-thousand dollar suit. William was the son of one of Henry's business partners and heir to Grafttec Cybernetics, but Miranda doubted he could _spell _cybernetics, let alone invent them. Next to William were other boys and girls, all equally dolled up. All equally empty. Spoilt little morons.

Miranda hated them all.

Still, she'd made her small talk like a good little dynasty. She asked William how his family business was going, described the origin of each dish as the servants brought it out, laughed at their japes. She'd even sung a few lines of _Rigoletto _for them when one of them asked (like the trained monkey he was).

Henry was moving on through his story. Miranda had heard the story enough times that she'd been able to watch her mother's description evolve with each retelling. Pale and lovely, of course (sometimes dark - it varied depending on Henry's mood). With dark eyes and red hair. Or maybe green eyes and blonde hair. It was as sloppy as it was maudlin. No attempt at genetic consistency, no believable checks on the drama. In some incarnation or another, Miranda's invented mother was always some lovely proletarian that always fell in love with him, birthed Miranda, and died.

And then would come the worst part. Henry Lawson would look at her with a tear in his eye and say something sentimental like "at least I still have Miranda".

Miranda grit her teeth, steeling herself.

"At least I still have Miranda."

There was a chorus of _awwww'_s and somehow Miranda managed to smile instead of throwing up.

Luckily her father didn't really like talking about her origins at any great length – even he was smart enough to know he didn't want people too interested in where she came from. Before long he'd moved on with his story to one of his other favorite topics - alien spies or the Chinese or the Starhook - Miranda didn't bother listening long enough to find out which.

Her critical part in the farce was finally done - her father wouldn't call attention to her again - and so Miranda set aside her fork and begged pardon from her table-guests. She folded her silk napkin and left it next to her plate and quietly excused herself, leaving the great slate patio where the guests congregated and heading down the path that wound behind the Lawson manor to the rest of Jordennliv Solutions' facilities. Her father was too absorbed in schmoozing his guests to notice her absence, though no doubt one of his guards had seen her leave. She'd hear about it later.

But she didn't care.

It was early winter, and snow crunched under Miranda's feet as she left the heated path. She crossed her arms over herself, shivering – the dress her father had had her wear to the party was hardly suitable for the weather – as she made her way down to one of the maintenance corridors that ran beneath the mansion. She unlocked the door with a key she'd tucked inside her glove, and stepped into darkness.

As clean and impeccable as the rest of the grounds were kept, the maintenance corridor was filthy. Miranda could feel the hem of her dress drag through the shallow layer of dirty slush on the floor as she locked the door behind her, could feel the cold water seeping into her shoes, ruining them.

That made her smile.

She walked the tunnel by the dim light of a few dusty fixtures, stopping only once to warm her hands against a steaming pipe before emerging on the far side of the manor, at the base of the engineering building. Steam belched from cooling towers on either side, rising up to meet the gray expanse of the sky.

"Niket?"

"Here." Twelve-year-old Niket Bhatnagar emerged from behind one of the towers, carrying a parcel.

Miranda smiled at him. "You find everything?"

Niket handed her the box. "Yeah," he said, looking nervously over his shoulder. "One of the guards stopped me but I just told him you sent me. They're _scared _of you, Miri."

Miranda grinned at that as she dug into the box. Inside was the datapad Mr. Harper had given her and a proper change of clothes. Niket stared away as she shed her ruined dress and pulled on an actual shirt and pants. She kicked her expensive shoes off in favor of warm socks and boots, and topped off the ensemble with a winter coat. "Finally," she said, steam roiling from her lips.

Niket smiled back at her. Her piecemeal winter wear matched his own and Miranda couldn't help but feel cheered. She'd met the boy – son of one of her father's guards – when he'd been assigned to bring her plant samples from the greenhouses for her biochemistry lessons. They'd become fast friends, especially when it had become clear how little her father cared for the idea. He didn't have a wealthy family or powerful connections – or anything material to offer Miranda at all, really – and yet he managed to be realer and smarter and _better _than any of the fools her father tried to stud her out to.

He wasn't afraid. Miranda adored him for that.

"Ready."

Miranda tucked the datapad into her coat pocket and the two of them gathered her shed clothes, stuffing them in the box. They started towards the biology research building, stopping to toss the box and dress into one of the labs' biohazard disposal hatches.

They headed down the path. "What are we doing this time?" Niket asked.

"Checking cell culture in D-lab," Miranda answered. "They're optimizing Birte's oocytes for somatic nuclear transfer."

"Right…"

"They're almost done with the genome," Miranda clarified. "They're getting Birte ready."

Niket's brows rose. "...I thought you said the genome would take at least six months."

Miranda tried to keep her expression neutral. "I was wrong," she admitted, as nonchalantly as she could. "My father is pressuring them. He wants it started." She hastened her step to escape the worried look Niket gave her.

They reached the biology annex. Henry Lawson's party had mostly shut down his facilities for the day – almost all of the principle staff were attending. All the same, technicians bustled about on their work as Miranda swiped a swiped access card to let them in the building.

"We're going to get in trouble," Niket whined, checking behind them as they headed down the main corridor, past murals painted with fluorescent micrographs of mitotic cells.

"No we won't," Miranda promised. She'd been meddling in Jordennliv company research for years and she hadn't been caught yet. She had hacked the company's intranet to include her personal terminal, and had kept an eye on all the projects, especially from the biology annex. Her father's true love was for the engineering department – his much-bragged-about Starhook system would revolutionize everything, he still claimed – but biology was where all the real action was happening.

That was one of the first things she planned to do when she inherited control of the company - shut down Starhook and dump the funds into the far more promising cellular engineering and somatic cloning projects. She looked forward to seeing the look on her father's face when Jordennliv's profits doubled in the first year.

No one paid them any mind as Miranda led them down the stairwell to the basement level, nor even when they took the security elevator another level down to D-lab – the only one of her father's labs not connected to the company networks. Henry Lawson thought that kept it hidden, off the books, off the network, and off the blueprints, but it hadn't been hard to find once Miranda had known what she was looking for.

She'd been eight when she'd noticed her night vision was deteriorating and diagnosed herself with retinitis pigmentosa. Gene therapy existed to solve the problem, but despite the doctors' best efforts to keep her uninformed, it had gotten Miranda thinking. Thinking about the mother she had never met, the holes in her father's story.

Thinking about how retinitis pigmentosa was caused by a mutation on the _Y-chromosome._ It hadn't taken her long to dig out her father's secret.

She was an engineered clone of Henry Lawson, and it was his Y-chromosome, _his _faulty gene that had tainted her vision.

D-lab was Miranda's _real _mother.

D-Lab was empty today – Miranda had arranged for the sole employee not at the party to have a surprise clearance investigation, giving them the lab to themselves. The fearsome looking security door at the front was plastered in sterility warnings, but it yielded easily enough to a swipe of Miranda's keycard and the children stepped inside without so much as wiping their feet.

Inside, machines hummed quietly between mountains of glassware. In the dim light they looked like hunch-backed little men with gleaming glass eyes and tiny bladed fingers. Miranda did not bother with any of the consoles – she'd long ago bugged the lab's equipment so she could follow their progress from a distance – and headed instead to a trio of tall cell culture incubators marked 'FOR EUKARYOTIC WORK ONLY'.

She opened one. Inside, dozens of petri dishes and well plates were lined in neat rows, each meticulously labeled with project and patient numbers. She found the shelf she wanted – _11237-Duerr, B-09-11-2171 _– and nodded to Niket. "These," she said, grabbing a handful of well plates and stacking them on the bench nearby. Niket started unpacking the rest while Miranda slid one of the samples into a nearby microscope. She adjusted the apertures with rote familiarity until Birte's cells came into focus.

They looked good. Healthy morphology. Growth rate consistent with expectations. No unforeseen complications. D-Lab's work was impeccable, as usual.

Miranda scowled into the eyepieces.

"So… when will she be born?" Niket asked, stacking the last of the plates. He closed the incubator with reverent care.

Miranda clicked off the microscope, returning the sample to the others. "Well," she said, peeling off the warning sticker and opening the lid to look at the dozens of tiny orange specks growing in the wells. "_These _will be done inside of two weeks." In the open air the cells were almost sure to be contaminated, but to be sure she traced a finger atop the top edge of the wells, feeling a bitter victory as she imagined the thousands of bacteria she was introducing. "Or maybe three," she said. She blew onto the exposed plate. "Or four." She forced herself to grin at Niket.

He frowned back. "Miri… Are you alright?"

Miranda put the lid back on the plate and opened the next. "To answer your question, though," she said, changing the subject, "They still have modifications to do on chromosome eight. A few new gene mods out of Johannesburg. Deep muscle density, a few biotic optimizations, a new myelin gene. Things you can't do _ex utero._ Assuming no changes to the project, they'll probably implant Birte by the summer." She looked at him. "So fifteen months."

Niket must have seen the worry in her eyes. He took a step closer. "Miri… Don't worry about her. Getting a baby sister is a _good _thing. It'll be okay."

Miranda turned away. It was not okay. Niket didn't know what this baby – this Miranda 2.0 – meant to her. Once, long ago, she had been a clone in a dish in a lab just like this. She had been Henry Lawson, doomed to his foibles, his fragilities, his foolishness. But she had been engineered away from that fate. Fixed. Repaired.

Made perfect.

That was the only thing that made it bearable. _Perfection._

A new sister would destroy all that.

She was supposed to be _perfect, _but the next version would be born with more than two dozen fixes. Cutting-edge gene mods. Mutations reversed. She wouldn't have retinitis pigmentosis. She would be better than Miranda. And if someone was better, Miranda wasn't perfect. And if Miranda wasn't perfect, then she wasn't anything.

Niket had a life. A father and mother who loved him. A future. Miranda had only perfection. She was not about to see that taken from her.

"I know," she lied. "I'm excited."

Niket looked at her, disbelief plain on his face. "You don't look excited. You look scared, Miri." He took a step towards her. "Why is this suddenly worse? Did something happen?"

Miranda almost broke. She almost told him everything right there in the middle of D-lab, right there overtop of the cells that would one day give her superhuman sister life. She almost told him about the emails she'd lifted from her father's terminals earlier that week, the ones about marrying her off to William Richter as part of a business transaction on her fifteenth birthday. The ones about stripping of her place as heir of Jordennliv Solutions.

The ones about getting rid of her to make room for her sister.

"I'm fine," she lied again.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

"Mr. Hock sends his apologies that he could not meet with you in person."

Hock's representative was cleanly pressed and even-faced, his business voice well practiced to remove all but the slightest Afrikaans accent. He sat down at the table opposite Mr. Bernein with his datapad.

Earnest Bernein snorted through the wild tangle of his coal-black beard. "I don't want Mr. Hock's _apologies_," he said, waving a thick finger in the other man's face. "I want _him. Here. Now._" Bernein was a big man, and imposing. Handsome enough, with blue eyes and a coarse mane of hair he could never quite tame, but with the look of a fighter, an undertone of desperate tension in every move he made.

If Miranda didn't recognize his bluster better, she'd think he was about to punch the other man in the jaw.

Hock's man was unphased. "I'm sorry, sir, b-"

"Ms. Toloni!" Bernein bellowed, turning in his chair to look at Miranda. "Call up the agreement we made with Mr. Hock."

Miranda murmured her assent, calmly summoning the requested document onto a datapad and setting it in Bernein's meaty hand before returning to her previous task of pretending to be busy helping her omni-tool's VI transcribe the mens' words.

She kept her mouth shut.

Never mind that she was ten times the thinker and twenty times the fighter Bernein was on her worst day. Never mind that Corvin Development's projects were already accelerating after the scant two weeks since she'd been assigned to the company. Never mind that she was – quite literally – the only thing between Bernein and a bullet to the head.

Bernein was not a man to tolerate backtalk from his secretary.

Miranda suppressed a pang of anger at the fictional Ms. Toloni's obsequiousness. She missed her Sayleigh Walker cover – Walker had had a spine. Walker would not pass for a servant. Walker had looked like her, acted like her. An easy cover. A fun escape, an excuse to live a normal life – if only for a few days at a time – without trying to be anything she wasn't.

But Hayley Toloni was supposed to be bubbly. Flirtatious. Stupid. Unassuming. Servile. Basically, she was supposed to be Kelly Chambers.

And so she'd endured Bernein's constant hitting on her. She'd sat in at his meetings, attended his needs, even escorted him home at night, all the while pretending she didn't loathe him. Sometimes she got to do actual work - she'd helped get Cerberus agents hired into all of CorDev's key departments, and had started grooming one of the lab heads' loyalties so he could replace Bernein once the Illusive Man decided to let the man reach his well-deserved end - but the vast majority of her effort was spent pretending to be empty-headed and beneath notice.

She'd hated every minute of it, and even worse because after two weeks she still couldn't tell what the Illusive Man's interest in Bernein was. Bernein wasn't particularly smart or resourceful. He'd inherited his money, his company, his ideas. And even those were nothing special – Corvin Development's supposedly 'revolutionary' heatsink technology he was trying to sell to Hock was something Miranda's father had been working on more than a decade previously.

And he was an ass, a young man who thought he was still invulnerable. Who took umbrage if Miranda so much as spoke, but thought his money meant he could backtalk men from the Alliance, men from Cerberus, men from the Blue Suns. He had a list of enemies as long as his arm, and Miranda had already managed to sniff out and stop two assassination attempts – a fact of which Bernein remained maddeningly oblivious. By all accounts, Bernein was disposable. Even if his company mattered, there was no reason he had to be in charge.

But the Illusive Man knew what he was doing. He had bigger plans in motion, and he would let her in on them as soon as he was ready. She had failed him, she had proven less-than-perfect, but it was not the first time. He did not hold grudges.

The Illusive Man knew that weaknesses were part of who people were. He himself bathed in his vices. He smoke cigarettes – and not the newer, safer ones but the old ones full of tar and carcinogens. He drank to excess, he did drugs. He womanized. And he never apologized for any of it. When you confronted your weakness, when you owned your failure, you either fixed it or you embraced it.

The Illusive Man embraced it. Miranda fixed it.

He was giving her time to do just that. He was not punishing her. He was above that.

She just had to have faith.

And so every morning Miranda did her exercises, pulled on an unflattering CorDev company uniform, and dragged herself to work like she wasn't one of the deadliest humans in the galaxy.

"We," Bernein said, holding up the datapad, "had an agreement. Twelve-thousand of the mark four unit at eight fifty apiece." He snarled his words across the table. "That's more than ten million credits, and Hock can't come to meet me in _person?_"

Hock's man did not thaw. He stared at Bernein like he was looking at a monkey in a zoo, safe behind glass from any thrown feces. "Unfortunately," he said (though his eyes said he didn't think it was unfortunate at all), "Mr. Hock has decided to take his business elsewhere."

Miranda lifted her gaze to stare at Bernein in the moment of crystallized quiet that followed.

Bernein's expression hardened with anger. "…what did you say?"

Hock's man nodded shortly. "Mr. Hock regrets to have wasted your time, but he has decided to take his business elsewhere. He was recently put in contact with a company based on Earth that could produce a product with higher performance margins."

Bernein coiled.

Miranda set her datapad aside, readying herself to intervene if her erstwhile boss did anything stupid. She didn't have her amp in – it would have been a giveaway that she was vastly overqualified for a secretarial position even to someone as self-centeredly unobservant as Bernein – but all the same she found her fingers dropping into familiar mnemonics. Her heart pulsed.

Bernein exploded to his feet like a rearing animal. "_WHAT _company!?" he roared, toppling datapads to the floor.

Hock's man looked up at him with no expression. "I am n-"

Bernein wasn't listening. He grabbed the other man by the shirt collar and dragged him to his feet, puffing out his chest like a frat boy in a bar. Miranda calmed – she recognized fake bravado when she saw it. She pretended to return to her transcribing. "You tell that mealy-mouthed _fuck _to be a man and tell me to my face what company's shit he's fucking me over for!" Bernein demanded, eyes wild.

Hock's man apparently recognized fake bravado too, and extricated himself from Bernein's hulking grip. "Excuse me," he said, apparently unruffled. "But I'm afraid I do not have the company's name with me. It was Swedish, I believe."

Miranda's eyes widened as the answer came to her. _Heatsink technologies like the ones her father had been working on for more than a decade_. She felt her stomach bottom out. "Jordennliv Solutions," she said, practically a whisper.

The two men looked at her with equal expressions of surprise.

She met their eyes, frozen as much by the passing mention of her father's dynasty - the company that had once been _her _dynasty - as by her slip of the tongue.

Thankfully, Hock's man spoke first. "Ahh… yes," he said, adjusting his tie. He smiled professionally. "Thank you, Ms. Toloni. I believe that was it." He gave each of them a respectful nod. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Hock is hosting a gathering and I am expected." He headed for the door.

Bernein stopped him with a heavy arm. "We-"

"Mr. Hock," the man interrupted, voice steely, "only invites those with whom he does _business._" He pushed Bernein's arm aside. "Good day."

–

Bernein was mad. At her, at Hock, at Hock's man, at Jordennliv Solutions, at the hovertaxi's console taking all of eight seconds to process their destination. He sat in the back of the taxi and alternated between simmering silence and great, bellowing insults. Oh, he'd show them. He'd show Hock.

Miranda would have smirked at that if she hadn't been so preoccupied.

_Jordennliv Solutions_

The memories did not come flooding back – they had never left her, not for a moment. Her father's company had been her childhood home. She'd been born there in the basement of the biology annex, next to the steam tower, across from the grounds, in the shadow of the mansion. She'd met Niket there, met Solheim there. Met the Illusive Man there.

Met Oriana there.

Shot her father there.

She'd been with Cerberus for years before she'd finally worked up the willpower to stop obsessing on her father, before she'd finally been convinced that he really, truly, did not know where she'd taken Oriana. Still, she had never stopped watching. Back when she'd been undercover with the Alliance on Earth she'd sometimes taken shore leave to visit Jordennliv's product shows in disguise. Though it had once been a great jewel, once been all Miranda ever wanted, Jordennliv's glory days were now well behind it – the money Henry Lawson had spent on his daughters, along with the sudden loss of support from several high-profile companies frequented by a Mr. Jack Harper had hit it hard. Still, her father had been uncharacteristically shrewd about leveraging the company's existing patents into just enough funding to keep the research going. Their progress had been modest, but some talent still remained and gains - especially in the biology labs Miranda had once admired - were slow but steady.

As far as Miranda could tell, they'd been too slow and steady for her father to afford resuming work on a new daughter just yet, but she'd maintained an uneasy watch all the same.

Now he was doing business on Bekenstein. With the offworlders he'd hated so vitriolically for so many years - even human colonies like Bekenstein had been alien traitors in Henry Lawson's eyes, no matter how lucrative the markets may have been. Something had changed his mind.

That uneasiness was back in full force. Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

"That Earthborn fucker," Bernein was still snarling in the back seat. "I swear to _God _I will-" He stopped mid-sentence, staring out the window as if he'd just now noticed it was there. Outside the starscrapers of Milgrom's commercial district were giving way to private dwellings and mansions, luxury hotels and resorts. "Where are we, Toloni?"

Miranda recalled the address perfectly. _Donovon Hock. 12828 SW Rothschild._

"A bar," she said instead. "You need a drink."

For once he did not bother arguing, just gave a snort and a nod as if it has been his idea – as if he was disappointed it had taken her so long to suggest it. He did not protest as she directed the hovertaxi to drop them at a towering resort fashioned after the Taj Mahal (if the Taj Mahal had featured alien strippers and miles of neon lighting).

She maintained her act long enough to lead him inside and buy him the strongest, most expensive drink she could find on Cerberus' credit.

Then she slipped out.

–

Miranda's unease was worse now, and for once it had nothing to do with fancy parties.

Still, she _did _hate fancy parties. They reminded her of her father, of that world of lies and grandiloquence that he loved so fiercely. That world the Illusive Man had helped her rescue herself from.

But on the other hand, Hayley Toloni _did _like parties. Perhaps that was something.

Miranda tried to look like she belonged as she sat on a polished bench in Hock's garden and stared up at the partygoers arriving in their hovering limousines. She was still in her CorDev company uniform, severely underdressed. Some part of her wanted to run by one of Rothschild's famously-expensive luxury outlets and buy a fitting dress, perhaps some simple jewelry, but there was no time for that, and if the Illusive Man was disappointed in her enough to avoid her calls (she'd tried to contact him every night since she'd begun her assignment, to no avail), he would not look kindly on paying for an extravagant garment. So she settled for letting her hair down and pulling the splint off of her thumb. She balked to imagine what she looked like in a mirror but there was nothing for it.

So she smiled and watched and waited, telling herself she didn't know exactly what she was looking for. Perhaps there was another assassination attempt on Bernein brewing, she told herself. Perhaps even Hock himself had designs on it – the man was not known for his subtlety when dealing with rival arms dealers.

But those were lies.

She knew _exactly _what she was looking for.

She watched the limos for almost an hour, taking in every detail she could. The guests arrived one by one, all dressed up in their finery as if they weren't some of the galaxy's biggest murderers-by-proxy. Miranda recognized some of them from past work in Cerberus – arms dealers, mercenaries, thugs, private security forces – but many others were strangers to her. Miranda could see the host greeting each guest as they arrived. Donovon Hock laughed easily, his white suit gleaming in the sunlight as he shook a man's hand, chastely kissed a lady's cheek. There was nothing on the surface that painted him as anything other than a kindly old bachelor with too much money on his hands.

And then a hovertaxi pulled up and a man stepped out.

Henry Lawson's black suit – much like the one the Illusive Man wore – was all sharp angles and clean lines as was the fashion back on Earth, and he stood out from the pale colors and smooth curves of the Bekensteini formal wear the rest of the guests sported. He was grinning widely, flashing white teeth as he stepped out of his ride, no hint of anger or discomfort at being on a colony world. He still carried a cane – a beautiful glass and steel one that glinted like diamond – as a memento of the last time Miranda had seen him, but his limp was all but gone. He looked happy. Healthy.

Miranda felt like she was choking, mesmerized to lay eyes on her father again.

Her father greeted Hock warmly as the others had, shook his hand. They exchanged a few words – too quiet for Miranda to hear – and then as quick as that he'd strode past the guards and disappeared into the house.

Just seconds, and he was gone.

Miranda felt her stomach boil.

All her old fire returned in a heartbeat. Her father was _dangerous. _Her father was a moron with too much money, too many smart people working for him. It didn't make _sense _to see him away from Earth. He was hunting her, he was hunting Oriana, he was hunting _something. _Something he shouldn't have. Miranda had to follow, had to make sure he wasn't going t-

She stopped, her mind catching up with her.

She should turn around. Bernein was her mission, and there was no real threat to him here. If she didn't get back to the casino where she'd left him before too long, Bernein would note her absence and there would be hell to pay – not just from him but from the Illusive Man, for abandoning her duty. And if Bernein should pick a fight with the wrong person and be _killed… _

She could not fail Cerberus again. Not after the _Normandy._

Following her father was not worth that.

Miranda hated the way he was already getting under her skin. She'd told herself a thousand times that they were through – by all accounts, he'd finally stopped trying to get her back. She'd won. She'd escaped. He could live out the rest of his years at Jordennliv and die and she'd read about his funeral in the newsfeeds and she wouldn't be so spiteful as to smile. It simply wouldn't affect her. She was above that. Over him.

And yet she would be lying to herself if she pretended she was over that part of her life, and if the Illusive Man had taught her nothing else, it was that lying to yourself was always, _always _a mistake. Lying to others about anything and everything could be justified as part of a larger game. But never yourself. You could trust yourself with your darkest secrets, your deepest insecurities.

But only if you chose to.

And only if you knew what they were.

She stared up at the house again, as if she could see through its walls to where a man who was everything but her _clone _sat and ate fancy imported sandwiches off of plates. She was not over him. She admitted it. She wasn't. She couldn't be. Maybe not ever. She would just have t-

"Henry Lawson's kid. Feel kinda stupid that I never made the connection, Princess," a gravelly voice interrupted from behind.

She whirled to see a familiar scarred face. A familiar shit-eating grin curled around a familiar cigar.

Zaeed Massani looked enormously pleased with himself. "You look just like 'im," he said, smoke rising from his nostrils.

* * *

_15 years previously…_

_–_

Miranda shivered as she lined up her next shot. As far as the calendar was concerned it was springtime but the weather hadn't caught up yet and her fencing outfit was little protection against the chill.

She ignored the cold, squeezing the trigger.

A hundred meters away, her target exploded into fragments that kicked puffs of dirt off of the impact berm. The report – much louder than usual, thanks to the drum rounds she'd borrowed from one of the guards – echoed across the gray dreariness of the Jordennliv grounds.

Miranda knew something had been off the instant she'd fired and, indeed, when the smoke cleared almost a third of her target remained.

She frowned and adjusted her gun, mind blazing through driver acceleration calculations that most people would have a VI work for them.

The pistols Mr. Harper had given her were works of art. Custom-made Laumann-12's made by a subsidiary of Kassa Fabrications at what Miranda was sure was an exorbitant price, they were perfect. Almost recoil-less, almost silent. Dissipated heat in a quarter second. Under standard settings accuracy maintained within a thousandth of a percent for up two twenty-eight minutes of continuous fire.

She treasured them dearly and it had hurt to saddle them with drum rounds like mere training pistols. Drum rounds were safer - they flew slower and even a direct hit from one was rarely fatal - but they were never meant for weapons of such precision. They threw off the guns' accuracy, left their barrels gummed up with metal residue that took hours to clean off.

But that was the price she had to pay for her little demonstration to be effective. Drum rounds were loud and scary, and that was what she needed.

Her gun's field pitches adjusted, she took aim at the next target.

Miranda briefly considered moving a few meters closer – she _was _already thirty meters behind the firing range's intended firing point, where the guards stood when they did their arms practice – but she quickly dismissed that thought. She had to put on a show today.

And even if her audience hadn't arrived yet, that didn't mean no one else was watching.

What if Mr. Harper was watching?

It was possible. Maybe even likely.

To be fair, the man was illusive. They hadn't spoken a word to him since the day she'd met him, more than a year previously. He rarely her father's frequent parties, and when he did he acted like he didn't even notice her. Even when Miranda had decided to look him up on the extranet she'd come up with next to nothing. For a wealthy businessman with associations with dozens of technology companies, Harper's name was surprisingly unknown.

And yet to Miranda, it was the only one that mattered. He had dominated her thoughts since she'd met him, and every time she pored over her memory of the man she found another trait that widened the gulf between him and her father. He was a thoughtful man, a man who could be silent and listen. A man who didn't beg for respect but demanded it. A man who cared about ideas, not about ownership. A creator, not a seller. An innovator, not a patenter. He was a liar like her father was, of course - Miranda had gotten very good at seeing dishonesty on a person's face and even Harper's implacable evenness of expression reeked of it - but he didn't believe his own lies. Even as he lied to your face, Harper was somehow pure and honest, untainted by the follies of normal men like Henry Lawson.

Harper was what he was and he knew it, and Miranda worshipped him for it.

Miranda had been made to be perfect, but before Harper she'd never met someone who knew _how _to be perfect.

And he wanted something with her. Most nights Miranda would find that new files had appeared on the datapad he'd gifted her, political writings or high-minded rhetoric, new versions of the Manifesto or dossiers on obscure politicians and businessmen. She read every one with gusto, learned to distinguish Harper's writings from the others. Learned about humans and aliens, about Cerberus and the Alliance, about independence in the face of a galaxy that wanted to annihilate you, about being human in a galaxy that wanted you to forget to. Not the business and science her father's tutors drilled into her, but philosophy, history, morality. She consumed it all. A few months ago she'd taken the next step and had started editing the texts as she received them, analyzing each one, appending her thoughts on this philosophical theory or that political scheme. Sometimes she'd write her own, and she'd pour herself into her words for days without sleep, until every one was as perfect as she could make it.

And though when Harper showed up to one of her father's parties he never so much as glanced at her, never gave any hint of recognition, somehow she knew he was watching her. Testing her. Grooming her.

He read her critiques. Somehow she knew it.

He watched her every move. She could not let him down. She could not show weakness, not ever.

And so she backed up another ten meters, checked the wind flags and the weather hookup on her omni-tool and took aim again.

She fired. This time, the target went down clean, nearly vaporized by the impact.

Miranda nodded, satisfied. She moved to the next target.

–

Miranda had three targets left to go when Birte finally answered her summons. The girl was her elder by a decade, and yet she stood meekly by the rangemaster's empty chair while Miranda finished her shooting.

Miranda didn't look at her. She could see her well enough with her mind's eye, the usual pale fragility Birte projected. She took her time with her last three shots.

_Boom._ One target disappeared. Miranda saw Birte flinch out of the corner of her eye.

_Boom. _The second. The drum rounds were so loud they felt like a punch in the stomach.

_Boom._

The third shot's report was still echoing when Miranda finally turned to look at the third member of what her father generously called the Lawson Family. Birte was not engineered like herself, but she would have been quite beautiful if she would ever smile. Her blonde hair hung in an elegant braid down to her waist. Her garb was plain, befitting her so-called station, but she was graceful and athletic and – for now, at least – even lovelier than Miranda herself. But whether because of the thankless task she'd been given, or the dank loneliness of the Lawson manor where she spent her time, or even something farther back in her past (Miranda had never bothered considering where Birte had come from), Birte Duerr had spent the past several years looking like nothing in the world could cheer her. She rarely spoke, and spent what time she had left after 'babysitting' Miranda and the rigorous fitness regimen the Jordennliv scientists kept her on ensconced in her room.

As far as Miranda could tell, she was an empty person. She had nothing to offer Miranda.

But that wasn't what she was there for. You didn't need to be an interesting person to be a good surrogate mother.

Birte was bland but she was _healthy._ She'd been chosen after a long search for the perfect surrogate. A strong immune system. Strong bones, a strong heart, and no genetic predispositions at all. And she was all natural. Never been subjected to gene modifications, not even the baselines that were administered standard to most EU citizens before their first birthdays. From a genetic engineer's perspective, Birte was a rare blank state, with nothing at all to interfere.

Miranda walked past Birte as she palmed the rangemaster's console to set up another line of targets. There was a distant whirr as they clicked into place. Birte said nothing as Miranda walked back to her firing position and took aim again.

"You know, he says you're my _handmaiden_," Miranda said. She fired. _Boom._ Another target disappeared, and Birte flinched again "That's what he says at his parties. You're supposed to be a motherly influence on me." _Boom._ "It's good for me to have a woman around the house, he says." She did not bother pointing out how patently ridiculous that idea was. Even half her age, she'd far surpassed Birte in every way already. Miranda chanced a look at her so-called handmaiden. Birte was paler than usual and Miranda grinned, eyes fixed on Birte as she aimed blind down the range and pulled the trigger.

_Boom._

Miranda didn't have to look to know she'd aimed well - but the way Birte shrank at the gun's report told her well enough.

Miranda had been clever. There would be no witnesses - Henry Lawson was away on business, Miranda had given the rangemaster the day off, And with the cold, everyone else would be inside. It was just her and Birte, out here with the veiled threat of a gun and a target and accuracy that any layman could tell was not achievable by a normal eleven year old. Add that to Birte's already mewling personality and all the battery of preparatory tests D-Lab had been putting her through recently, and it was perfect.

Birte practically shook.

Miranda finally holstered her gun, confident her demonstration had had its intended effect. "I don't know if you know what they're doing to you in the labs lately," she said. "And I don't care." Her face was expressionless. "The important thing is that _I _need you to no longer be a factor." She'd thought it through, so many nights now, and she was sure. Birte was the keystone. Miranda 2.0's genome was saved on a thousand different backups. The modified chromosomes were secured in refrigerated safes in three locations. Miranda could never destroy them all.

But she could get to Birte.

"A factor in wh-"

Miranda cut her off. "Under my fencing mask," she said, pointing to where it rested on the chair.

Birte obediently moved the mask. Sitting underneath was a tiny glass jar. The single red pill within shone in the morning light.

"Take it," Miranda commanded. She drew her gun again and took aim at the next target, as if that was that.

"W-What is it?"

Miranda fired and let the report die down again. "Something that will invalidate the gene mods they've been giving you. It will disrupt your hormones for a few weeks. Call it a month. You shouldn't notice any ill effects." _But you sure won't be getting pregnant. _She moved to the next target. "Take it."

"No."

Miranda looked at her with an even face. Birte was trembling where she stood but all the same it was more spine than Miranda had ever seen out of her. Still, under Miranda's pale gaze she cracked, and fast.

"Y…your father would-" Birte tried to explain.

"You are going to listen to _me _now, not my father," Miranda snapped, staring daggers up at the older girl. "My father is a _moron._ I know it. You know it. Somewhere in his black little heart even _he _knows it. He made me to be better than him, and I am." She took a step towards Birte. "And so you are not going to take his orders over mine. You are going to do the right thing. You are going to follow _me_. Because I am _better._"

She turned back to her targets yet again, but not so fast she didn't see the tears in Birte's eyes. Not so fast she couldn't see the fear there.

"This is better," Miranda said, lining up her next shot. "The pill lets us both have what we want. I'm letting you stay. I'm taking a risk for you, doing it this way. The only other way to do this ends with me leaving you in a ditch for him to find." _Boom._ "It's just like a birth control pill. Take it."

Crying, Birte swallowed the pill and turned to go.

She only made it two steps before the tranquilizer had its effect and she collapsed, unconscious.

Miranda looked over at her. Birte looked like a broken doll, face-down in the frosted grass, and Miranda felt a rare pang of regret for what her father had forced her to do. "Sorry," she said.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

"I been going to Hock's little parties since I was still running with the Suns," Zaeed was saying as he walked, arm linked with Miranda's, back up towards the house. "Usually pretty goddamn boring, if you ask me, but the man's got a hell of a taste in bourbon."

Miranda ignored him and tried to look awestruck by the splendor as Zaeed led her along.

"Never miss one," Zaeed went on, oblivious to her distraction. "One year I even went in a wheelchair with half a face hopin' Vido would show like usual." He chuckled bitterly. "So happens that was the year he stopped coming."

"So why do you still show up?" Miranda asked, annoyed.

"Aside from the booze? Guess I like the reminder he's still scared of me."

Miranda didn't look at him. As out of place as her plain uniform looked next to the fancy trappings of the other guests, Zaeed looked even worse. Out of armor, hair freshly combed, he looked almost alien, his gray suit and pale pink tie (_all the rage_, he'd assured her, some twenty or thirty years ago) well-fitted but impossibly mismatched with his scarred face. Jessie was nowhere to be seen – the man didn't even set off the weapons scanner when they stepped past the Eclipse guards guarding the steps to the patio. Only the cigar in his mouth remained as testament to who Zaeed Massani really was. And that was not a man Miranda wanted next to her at a fancy party.

Still, he _was _the one with the invitation, and he _had _offered to get her inside.

They made their way up the steps to the veranda and Miranda stopped, eyes still relentlessly scanning for any sign of her father. "I don't have much time," she said, voice hushed. "So when we get in there, you're going to go find my father and introduce yourself. Find out what he's up to."

Zaeed snorted. "Hell I am," he said. "This is my day off. You want to talk to daddy, _you _do it. I'm gonna have an unfriendly chat with any Suns that showed up and get drunk off my ass." He grinned. "Not necessarily in that order." Miranda frowned but he ignored her. "Besides, you're _my _date, Princess." He pulled an embossed invitation card out of his jacket and waggled it tauntingly. "Remember?"

How could she have forgotten? Miranda put on a stern face. "Mr. Massani, you will do what Cerberus tells you t-"

"You're not Cerberus anymore," Zaeed interrupted. "Not as far as I'm concerned." He looked smug. "I don't have to do a goddamn thing I don't want to."

Miranda was denied the opportunity to reply as Zaeed pushed forward to greet their host. Donovan Hock was a tall man, and looked down on them with a benevolent air. "Mr. Massani," Hock said, offering a manicured hand.

Zaeed shook it, grinning. "Hock, you pressed up bastard, how the hell are you?"

"Well enough," Hock said, with a magnanimous nod. He turned to regard Miranda, cocking his head. "And who is your guest?"

Zaeed grinned victoriously at Miranda, his amusement plain on his face. "_This _is my very lovely-"

"Daughter," Miranda interrupted. She paused. "Well, granddaughter, technically," she amended, shaking Hock's hand. "Sasha Massani, very nice to meet you, Mr. Hock." She smiled and curtsied showily, ignoring the way Zaeed's mismatched brows rose in surprise. "Your home is beautiful, sir."

Hock grinned at her, impressed. "You never told me you had a granddaughter, Mr. Massani," he accused, bowing to kiss the back of Miranda's hand. He stared at her. "Please, call me Donovan."

Zaeed growled. "Yeah, I-"

"Mr. Donovan," Miranda continued, cutting him off again, "I hate to be an ungrateful guest, but will your servants be offering any _non-alcoholic_ drinks?" She hugged Zaeed to herself with one arm. "My Pop-Pop's doctor wants him to cut back before his liver gets any worse."

Zaeed's jaw hung open.

Hock took no notice, and bowed again. "Of course, Ms. Massani. I will tell my servants to make sure he is accommodated."

"And that he doesn't cheat," Miranda added.

Hock smiled and nodded. "And that he does not cheat," he agreed.

Miranda cast a victorious grin Zaeed's way, amused to see the astonishment and bloody rage jostling for purchase in the old merc's dusty mind. "Coming, Pop-Pop?" she asked, in a singsong voice. She settled back into his arm and gave it a tug. Zaeed followed as if in a daze.

"You are a lucky man, Zaeed," Hock called after them as they headed for the glass doors into the estate, "to have someone to look out for you."

Zaeed looked shell-shocked. "I… Uhh…" he stammered. His shoulders sank. "Yeah," he agreed finally, mumbling. "Real goddamn lucky."

–

"Oh, you are some special kind of bitch."

As soon as they were inside Miranda finally let go of Zaeed's arm, scanning the room for her father. "You aren't really trying to antagonize me further," she asked, distracted. "Are you 'Pop-Pop'?" Around her, clusters of people stood about in twos or threes, admiring Hock's impressive art collection or availing themselves of the appetizers offered by a small fleet of waiters.

"What more can you do to me? You already took my booze. I've killed for less."

Miranda ignored him as her gaze found her father through the patio windows. Henry Lawson was seated on a bench on Hock's back porch, talking animatedly to a human couple. His back was to her, but all the same Miranda shrank behind the nearest bookcase, pulling Zaeed after her under pretense of pointing out a framed painting.

"Do you have one of the _Normandy's_ earpieces?" she asked, staring emptily into the painting.

Zaeed shrugged. "Nope. Like I told you, this is my day off. Not here to cause any trouble."

Miranda fixed him with a glare. "So you _were _kicked off the _Normandy. _There's no way Shepard would give you a day off to come cavort with these maniacs." It seemed only reasonable for Shepard to have kicked the rest of Cerberus off of the ship as soon as she was gone – it would explain why the Illusive Man had not sent her any news of the _Normandy's _progress. The thought was an enormous relief.

But Zaeed just shook his head. "We were in the neighborhood," he admitted. "Some mission for the _other_ princess. But I'm not privy to the details. I'm just here for the party."

"So Cerberus still has personnel on the _Normandy..._" Miranda asked, incredulous.

"Everybody but you," Zaeed said. He grinned.

Miranda couldn't help but feel a little wilted at that. She'd told herself a thousand times already she was at peace with what had happened on the _Normandy _– if the Illusive Man wanted her off the mission, then she was off – but seeing Zaeed again was like seeing a figure from a past life. Her head brimmed with questions. Had they replaced her? Were they still going after the Collectors in the galaxy core? Had The Illusive Man retaliated for Garrus' attack? How was Jacob holding up without her?

She chewed her lip. She should be on that ship.

Zaeed gave a snort – his best approximation of a goodbye - and turned to walk away.

Miranda felt a jolt of panic – the figure from her past life was about to disappear. "Where are you going?"

"To find some goddamn juice," he growled, and stalked off into the crowd.

–

Miranda read her father's lips.

"…_up more than three hundred percent, and we're-"_ he was saying, beforesomeone stepped through Miranda's vision, cutting off her view. She frowned at them while they lingered at a tray of hors d'oeuvres, then finally moved aside. "_Forty one loci, I'm told, but they think we can get it down to thirty-one with a silencing technique we've developed…"_

From her position at a table on the opposite side of the party, Miranda scowled and took another drink of the Suraboz whiskey she'd gotten from one of the waiters. Lies and shop talk. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to indicate why he'd suddenly changed his mind about offworld businessmen like Hock. Just the usual drivel.

In truth, her worries felt silly now. She had abandoned her mission - possibly endangered Bernein's life - just to trail her father to yet another mindless party. Had she not learned her lesson that nothing of use was _ever_ said at one of these sorts of events? She had been getting herself worked up over nothing. Her father was scum, but an evil mastermind he was not.

She should have been shadowing Bernein.

Still, something felt wrong to her. As innocuous as his conversation had been so far, her intuition screamed that her father was up to his old tricks. The biology stats he was quoting were vagueries, too general for any real clues, but it was possible he was describing work on Miranda 3.0, wasn't it?

She kept watching, her mind conjuring up her father's voice in perfect time with his lips.

"…_It was, oh, twenty-five years ago, and I was on a trip to the Mediterranean States when I first met-"_

"There," came a grunting voice, and Miranda felt the weight of someone drop in the seat across from her.

She looked.

Was _EVERYBODY _at this party?

Shepard didn't give her a moment to register, and grabbed her hand to shake it. "Solomon Gunn," he said, in what she expected was supposed to be a suave voice. "_Very _nice to make your acquaintance. You are…?"

"Shepard?"

Shepard grinned, but said nothing as he pulled a cigar out of one of his fancy suit's pockets and lit it with a luxury omni-tool. He gave an elaborate puff. Behind him, Zaeed swished a wine glass full of orange juice and rolled his eyes, his annoyance at Shepard interrupting his partying obvious.

Miranda frowned, staring at Shepard. "You don't smoke, Shepard."

"Never heard of 'im," Shepard said, grinning around the cigar. "_I'm _Solomon Gunn. And Solomon Gunn enjoys a good cigar every once in a while." He took the cigar from his mouth and inspected it. "This is a... uh...," He screwed up his face.

"Cobol Five," Zaeed supplied.

"A Cobol Five," Shepard agreed, as if he hadn't heard the merc. He put it back in his mouth. "Imported, I imagine," he said, staring at Miranda, clearly proud of himself. "A brand I smoke often. Being Solomon Gunn."

Miranda heard a whisper in her ear – Kasumi Goto, cloaked. "Just go with it," she said. "He's having fun."

"What are _you_ doing here?" Miranda demanded.

Shepard smoked his cigar awkwardly. "Why, attending a fine party, as arms dealers like myself are wont to do!" He smiled. When Miranda didn't smile back, Shepard's grin and goofy persona alike finally melted away. He sighed bashfully, pulling the cigar out of his lips. "Are you alright, Miranda?"

"I'm fine," Miranda insisted, teeth grit.

"Garrus told me he hadn't hurt you… but I wasn't…" he frowned to himself. "I wasn't sure I believed him."

"I'm _fine,_" Miranda repeated, putting her injured thumb in her lap, as if Shepard could see the mending bone inside. "Really. Just… go away."

"Where have you been?" Shepard asked, leaning in. He looked guilty, conspiratorial. "I figured you would have been banging on our airlock door like two weeks ago."

"I've been reassigned," she said. "I'm no longer your problem to suffer. Now please, leave."

Shepard's face fell. "Look, Miranda… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened. Really. Let's talk about it. Let's fix it."

Miranda ignored him. Her heart roared at the chance to return to the _Normandy, _to see her mission through, and yet here, now, with him, she couldn't do it. It was impossible. He'd rejected her, he'd let his turian friend gas her and abduct her. Now, after all the trouble he'd put her through, he wanted her _back?_

Never.

She said nothing.

Shepard sighed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Miranda kept her mouth closed, staring blankly across the room as if she could see her father through Shepard's shoulder. When she didn't supply an answer, Zaeed spoke up. "Stalking her dad," he grunted, amused.

Shepard's brows rose. "Your d-" his voice caught as he remembered what she'd told him. "Your _dad!?_" he whispered. He turned, following her gaze to the patio. "Which one?"

Miranda stared daggers at him. "It's not your concern, Shepard, it's-"

"Fancy white suit, over there with teeth and the girl with the hair," Zaeed said, pointing.

Miranda tossed him a furious look, but the merc just grinned.

Shepard squinted down the patio and nodded, face drawn in a grim frown. "I see him," he said, staring at Henry Lawson with the same look he used to stare down mercs and husks, collectors and geth. It was not a good look.

"We have time," Kasumi's disembodied voice supplied. "I need a little while to canvas the house, make sure we don't run into any surprises."

Miranda could see where this was going. "No," she said. Her heart raced. "Shepard, this is a private matter. Stay out of this," she warned. "I don't want you t-"

Shepard looked at her and her stomach sank at the mischievous look on his face. Her words died on her tongue - he'd made up his mind. "Shepard ain't here," he said, back to his smartass grin. "Zaeed, keep a lookout."

"There's a Sun over there trying to pretend like he doesn't recognize me," Zaeed said. "He and I still have to chat."

Shepard shrugged. "Don't care. You can do that later."

"This is my day off," Zaeed reminded him. "Whatever you and the little Princess are doing here ain't my concern."

Shepard shrugged again. "Do it anyway, bitch."

Miranda and Zaeed stared, speechless as Shepard put the cigar back into his mouth. He was serious.

Their eyes followed him as he rose from the table and made for Henry Lawson.

–

To the outside world, Miranda looked cool and confident, enjoying her drink in the Bekensteini sunset, but inside she was shaking, barely able to tear her eyes away from where Shepard had taken a seat next to her father.

The earpiece that had been pushed into her palm by invisible fingers crackled.

"_You sure?"_ Shepard was saying. She could see him offering his box of cigars. _"They're Canbal Fives. I am almost one hundred percent sure they are imported."_

Miranda buried her face in one hand, mortified even at this distance. It was bad enough that _Shepard _was talking to her father, but Shepard awkwardly pretending to be a debonair criminal? This would not end well. Her father and the two people he'd been speaking with stared at Shepard with cocked eyebrows. Still they said nothing, perhaps because Shepard had offered to pay for a round of drinks.

Shepard muscled on obliviously, a shrug in his voice. "_Suit yourself_." He puffed.

Her father spoke. "_So… what do you do for a living again, Mr…"_

"_Gunn," _Shepard supplied. "_Solomon Gunn. I'm an arms dealer. Galaxy full of people that need arms, and somebody's gotto deal 'em. Ain't pretty but it puts the cigars on the table. Keeps the family fed. Pays the bills. You know."_

"_And what kind of arms do you sell?"_

Miranda dreaded Shepard's answer.

"_I resell, mostly," _Shepard answered instantly. "_Run 'em from some of the smaller planets too small for the Suns to care about. Mostly volus stuff, shipments of K-12-A's out of Alamanda, sometimes get ERCS surplus wares from Unbai." _At least Shepard knew his guns. "_Trying to break into Kassa but you know that is. Still, it keeps the family fed. Pays the bills. You know."_

"_I've heard the K-12's are quite lucrative."_

"_No kidding, Henry. Can I call you Henry? Yeah, K-12's sure…" _Shepard paused, his confident façade straining for an instant._ "…pay the bills."_

"_And keep the family fed, yes."_

Shepard jumped on it. _"Speaking of family, you have any kids, Henry? No kids myself. Selfish to keep these good genes to myself, I know, but what can I say? I'm a renegade."_

There was a long pause. Even from across the terrace, Miranda could see the look of suspicion on her father's face, the transparent nonchalance on Shepard's. Shepard looked too eager, too curious. He was no cover agent. And with _that _obvious setup? Her father would be a moron not to 'd never answer.

"_I have twin daughters."_

Miranda grimaced. Her father was a moron. Still, something stirred in her gut to hear her father mention her. Somehow she'd always assumed her escape - or at least that one time she'd shot him three times - had hurt him so badly that he would refuse to speak of her, but now there was no contempt in his voice. He sounded more tired than anything. Was it possible he regretted what he had done to her? To Oriana?

Shepard laughed, his voice tinny through the earpiece. "_Glad we're not _all _renegades, huh Henry? Two daughters, huh? What are they like?"_

"_Estranged, I'm afraid."_

Miranda felt a sudden pang of dread as she realized what was coming. Why Shepard had so ham-fistedly dragged family into the conversation. He wasn't checking on Oriana – he didn't even know about her - but he _did _know about Miranda's father, about how she felt about him. He was going to try to drag a confession out of her father and then say something stupid to impress her, something he thought was heroic. Some valiant defense of Miranda like "you missed out on a wonderful daughter" or at least "she deserved better" or something, as if that would make her forgive him. He was going to tip her father off with his misguided gallantry.

That stupid, stupid man. Miranda wanted to turn away, but she couldn't stop watching. Shepard was going to blow everything defending her.

But then Shepard didn't. "_Oh well," _was all he said. "_You know how kids are. Gotto forge their own path. Leave the nest." _He turned to look around. _"Where are those damn drinks I ordered?"_

The second passed, and Shepard said no more of daughters or what they deserved. Miranda frowned despite herself, somehow disappointed.

He could have defended her a _little _bit.

A voice in her ear almost made her jump. "You have a twin sister?" Kasumi breathed, barely over a whisper. "Hot."

Miranda batted her away under cover of adjusting her hair. "She's fourteen," she snapped, annoyed that she had not heard the thief approach.

"Err… I meant Shepard, then," Kasumi amended. "He's actually not half bad at this."

"That's only because my father is a fool," Miranda insisted, though she knew it was petty. As much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Shepard wasn't _quite _as dumb as she had anticipated. As transparent as his dude-bro overconfident badass persona was to her, it seemed to be fooling his marks, and that was what mattered. But she wasn't going to admit that to Kasumi. She sighed. "Don't you have canvassing to do?"

Somehow she knew the invisible thief gave her a smartass shrug. "Couldn't miss this."

Miranda's retort was cut off when something _crashed._

There was a sudden commotion and a shattering of glass from across the terrace, and Miranda was on her feet before she caught herself, hands darting for the holster she used to wear. When her fingers met only emptiness she realized what she'd done and dove back into her seat in an instant, wishing for a moment she could be so invisible as the thief.

Luckily, nobody was paying attention to her. Across the patio, her father and Shepard were on their feet, yelling and red-faced. It was not hard to tell what had happened - her father's expensive suit was soaked head to toe in a whole tray of drinks that had been upended into his lap. Bits of broken glass glinted in the sunset. He was not pleased.

"What was that for, Gunn!?" he bellowed, waving his cane furiously in the air. The question was so loud Miranda had to rip the headset from her ear.

Across from him, Shepard was untouched by the spilled drinks, but just as furious. "The hell are you blaming _me_ for!?" Shepard roared back. "It was the goddamn waiter!" He wheeled on the waiter before Henry Lawson could protest. "Where'd you learn to serve drinks, fucking Kahje!?"

The poor waiter looked terrified, and stammered apologies, incoherent in the commander's shadow. The party was dead silent - stunned by Shepard's explosion. Even Zaeed, keeping watch at the far end of the room, looked impressed.

"You ruined my suit!" Shepard roared at the waiter, face glowing with fury that Miranda had never seen in him before. He displayed a dampened sleeve – hardly a splash compared to what had happened to Henry Lawson's suit – and yet he shouted so loud and so angrily that Henry Lawson looked meek and reserved in comparison. "I swear to GOD you will regret that!"

Shepard stormed away from the table in an avalanche of anger, every eye in the party following him out.

–

Miranda watched her father fuss over his ruined suit. Not to be outdone by Shepard, he took it upon himself to lecture the harangued waiter further, waving his cane like stereotypically crotchety old man as he ranted about how servants on Earth would be _beaten and fired_ for a mistake like that, _beaten and fired. _If his annoyance was getting through after Shepard's shocking outburst, however, there was no sign.

After a few minutes of bitching Henry Lawson was finally satisfied, and carefully gathered up his coat and his cane and made for the door in a huff, dripping a trail of alcohol behind him. Miranda watched him go, making no attempt to hide the smile on her face.

"I've got… six hundred odd credits left on me," Shepard's voice came from behind her. Miranda stowed her smile in an instant and turned to look at him. Shepard was leaned against a marble column as if nothing had happened, his hands in his suit pockets and a tired look on his face. "You think that'd make up for blowing up on that poor waiter for something he didn't do?"

"It'd be a start," Kasumi's voice said. "I'll sneak it into the poor man's pocket. Maybe I'll steal a fancy watch or two, throw that in as a bonus."

"Don't get him in trouble, Kasumi," Shepard warned, discreetly handing over his credits until they winked out of existence in a shimmer of cool air.

"Joking, Shep. I think he's had a hard enough day already."

Shepard nodded absently.

"That," Miranda said, feeling the slight change in pressure that meant the thief had finally padded away, "was very foolish. What if you h-"

Miranda's words died on her tongue as Shepard tossed a datapad onto the table in front of her. It was very rich, a diamond crystal screen set into a polished titanium chassis. On the back, the _Jordennliv Solutions _logo gleamed in gold.

Miranda's eyes widened. It was her father's datapad. She met Shepard's gaze, astonished.

Shepard grinned, mouthed "SOLOMON GUNN", then turned and walked away without a word.

–

It was the third message in his email. Dated less than a day ago.

_From: Henry Lawson (president jordennlivsolutions_extr)_

_Sent: 4.10.2186 7:58:02pm EST_

_To: Unknown (proxy_2121857_58B82 Iliumproxy14_extr)_

_Subject: Rescue Mission_

_Absolutely not. She is not to be drugged. Oriana is worth more than your entire organization, Enyala. I expect her to arrive on Earth COMPLETELY untouched. That's what I'm paying you for. Don't make me regret going off-world with this._

_Do it right._

_(PS: Besides, it probably wouldn't put her down anyway – she's resistant to most neurotoxins.)_

_-Henry Lawson_

_-President and Founder, Jordennliv Solutions_

_-Jordennliv Village, 20-128, European Union, Earth_

Miranda stared at it, trying to decide if what she was feeling was disbelief.

* * *

_14 years previously…_

_–_

Henry Lawson did not drink, but he'd poured himself a glass of scotch all the same.

He sat in a seldom-used armchair in one of the manor's hearth rooms, chin resting on his knuckles and pale eyes staring into the fire he'd had his servants kindle. The room was sweltering – far too hot for Miranda's tastes – and yet she sat a chair away, sneaking furtive glances at her father over the top edge of her datapad.

The EU investigator had come and gone already. He'd been little help, especially after _Jordennliv Solutions _security had already stomped all over the supposed crime scenes instead of waiting for the professionals. Birte's disappearance – abduction, Henry Lawson had insisted – had seemed to happen by magic. There was no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints, nothing picked up on the DNA scanner. Her things were gone.

There was nothing, the investigator had insisted, to suggest she'd been taken at all. More likely she'd run away, especially given the woman's apparent depression. It was known to happen.

Henry Lawson had a different theory.

"Aliens," he muttered to himself yet again, still staring into the flames. "Alien technologies."

Miranda afforded herself a satisfied smile behind her datapad. In truth, Birte Duerr was, at that very moment, on an Exogeni transport from Frankfurt Spaceport to Soto's Hope colony on Chasca, still sleeping off the tranquilizer Miranda had given her the previous morning. She was no longer Birte Duerr, either, but Laurie Somher, with all the right ident cards and such.

And Laurie Somher's name was on a colonial ledger. She was contractually obligated to stay on Chasca for ten years. Miranda liked to think the change of scenery would be good for her. Maybe she would stop being so limp.

But more importantly, Henry Lawson would _never _find her.

Miranda had covered her bases, disposing of Birte's clothes and toiletries so it would look like she ran away. She'd even left a bogus ticket order for a train ride to the spaceport in Paris on Birte's datapad for the investigators to find, but they hadn't even bothered to check.

Birte was long gone, and without a surrogate mother so was Miranda 2.0. And nobody was any the wiser.

It was a job well done, and Miranda felt a stab of pride knowing that she had beaten Miranda 2.0. That would be the end of it. Replacing Birte and all the work they'd done on her cells would be inordinately expensive - far too much to justify wasting even _more _of Jordennliv's resources on what was essentially an enormous vanity project. They would cancel it. And even if they didn't, even if her father decided to sink another few hundred thousand credits into a new surrogate mother, she'd just dispose of that one too. Send Birte a friend to keep her company.

It was all perfectly done, and Miranda felt a warmth in her stomach she hadn't felt in a long time. Her birthright to Jordennliv Solutions - in doubt for so long - was secure once more. Without a replacement daughter, her father would call off his plans to marry her to Richter, and in a few years she would inherit Jordennliv Solutions and helm it better than her father ever had. It would be _her_ portrait in the main foyer, _her_ name on the plaques. She'd take the company places it had never been, places _no _Earth company had ever been. She had ideas by the score already, ideas for biology, for cybernetics, for ship engineering. She'd start her own coalition but avoid all the mistakes CASAI had made, all the rebellion and failure. Maybe even expand into alien manufacture. It was a bright future.

Watching her father squirm was just icing on the cake.

Her father muttered, distracted.

"Months," he said. He must have seen Miranda looking at him, for he finally dragged his gaze away from the fire. "They're out to destroy my legacy, Miranda," he said, shaking his head.

Miranda put her datapad aside, burying the smile she felt under a look of concern. "Who is, Father?" she asked, anxious to hear his newest stupid theory.

He waved a hand. "One of my enemies," he sneered. "Pick one. There are three dozen men who would love to see me brought low."

_Also one daughter._

Miranda kept silent.

"Only this time," he continued, "this time they brought aliens to do their dirty work for them. Some turian technology. Or quarian. Cloaking fields, or… or teleportation, maybe. It wouldn't be the first time the Citadel has hidden something game-changing from us." He returned his gaze to the fire.

It was a ludicrous suggestion, but in Miranda's young experience so many ideas born in bigotry were. If Henry Lawson had ever bothered to visit any extranet sites besides political blogs and the _Jordennliv _homepage he might know why teleportation was impossible, even for the aliens he mistrusted so much. He might know that cloaking fields didn't stop someone from leaving traces of DNA, and that the galaxy's most advanced personal cloaking device was designed by Ariake Technologies, a human company.

And if he'd ever spared a thought for anyone other than himself he might know why Miranda wanted Birte gone more than anyone else.

"You remember Mr. Harper?" her father asked, eyes glinting in the firelight.

_Every second of every day _is what she might have said if she was feeling truthful. "I think so," she said instead. "The tall man who smokes." She stared at him, heart suddenly aflutter. What about Mr. Harper?

Her father grunted noncommittally. "He called me today," he said, disgusted. "Said a friend told him what happened."

Miranda couldn't quite keep the smile off her face. Mr. Harper was smart enough to know the truth. He must have known she had done it. He must have seen how cleverly she'd set it all up.

"He told me I should count my blessings. Cut the project." Henry Lawson's tone was full of bile and feelings of betrayal. He almost spat, shaking his head slowly, side to side, like he couldn't believe anyone would suggest such a thing.

Miranda's heart soared. Her father would listen to Harper. Even he was not so stupid as to recognize the older man's genius in such things.

"Mr. Harper can go screw himself," her father growled.

Miranda's eyes widened as her fantasy evaporated. She stared at him.

He looked at her, smiling at her disbelief. "With an iron poker," he finished, proud of himself. "That son of a bitch is probably the one who did it. He's probably the one with the alien friends."

Miranda could hardly believe her ears. "Father…" she tried, clawing for words that would not just sail over his head. "Mr. Harper doesn't have much to g-"

"He can go screw himself," her father repeated. "I'm holding the course. I'll find a new surrogate. Do it through one of the designer baby companies, keep it secure. Birte was a sycophant anyway. Mewling. Worthless. Wouldn't want that infecting the baby anyway."

Miranda's stomach knotted, as much out of the disappointment of hearing his plans as out of the hypocrisy of her father calling _anyone _a sycophant. She took a deep breath and tried again. "If Mr. Harper wanted to-"

And then he said it. "What kind of father would I be if I gave up now?" He asked the question, looking straight into Miranda's eyes, a warm smile on his lips. As if he cared. As if he didn't see all that was wrong with that.

Miranda's argument died on her lips. Her mind, usually so sharp, so quick, could barely form thoughts.

She turned and stormed out, dearly glad she had left her pistols in her room.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

"Illium's a big place, you know," Zaeed said. He'd had a deep smile on his craggy face when he'd joined her at the table ten minutes earlier. Shepard and Kasumi had disappeared to the lower levels to do whatever nefarious deed they'd come for, leaving Miranda the only one he could brag to, and he'd wasted no time telling her all the juicy information he'd worked out of the Blue Sun he'd found after he'd started breaking fingers with a cocktail spoon. Even wiggling with excitement as the old man was, though, he'd sobered when he'd noticed Miranda's mood, and now he just stared, absently swishing his glass of juice, as Miranda reread the email for the hundredth time. "Plenty of places to hide," he added.

Miranda didn't answer. Zaeed didn't understand. He was a battle-hardened merc.

Oriana was a fourteen year old girl. She _was_ in danger. How many of Illium's hiding places would occur to a fourteen year old girl? How many of them would be safe from Eclipse and this Captain Enyala?

How many of them would be safe from _Illium?_

Oriana was a smart girl but she'd never seen the things Miranda had. She was young and innocent, occupied by thoughts of boys and school and homework, if what Miranda had gleaned off of her Spaceface page was any indication. Not like Miranda herself had been at that age, running off to join a terrorist organization. Oriana was normal.

Miranda had fought to give her that opportunity. Had decided to stay away, now and forever, to preserve it. Had given up talking to perhaps the only person in the galaxy who might know what she was going through, just to keep her safe.

And now Oriana was in danger. Possibly captured already.

"Eclipse is a bunch of jackoffs," Zaeed said, still trying to cheer her (and quite unconcerned with the four or five Eclipse guards within earshot). "You put a bounty on their ass they couldn't find it with both hands."

"Shut up, Zaeed," she said.

For once he listened, going back to his juice. Miranda was thankful for the silence. Her head was a storm of thoughts.

There were plans to make. She had to move carefully. If the email was any indication, her father already knew exactly where Oriana was. As upsetting as that notion was, there was time to figure out how he'd found out later. For now, she had to assume she could not reach Illium in time to stop Eclipse from catching up. That left breaking Oriana out of _Jordennliv Solutions _back on Earth, or trying to intercept them somewhere en route. She'd have to be careful how she proceeded – no doubt her father would never risk Oriana's safety, but that said nothing about the girl's adoptive parents.

She had to be thoughtful. Calculating. Emotionless.

That was hard to do with tears streaming down your face.

"Listen," Zaeed was saying, "Shepard and the princess will be back soon enough, and we can-"

There was an ear-splitting screech as an alarm went off. It echoed through the house with a deafening report, so loud that the guests ducked for cover, hands clamped over their ears. The initial burst died out, giving way to a long klaxon noise, quieter but still so loud the windows shook.

Miranda and Zaeed's eyes met.

"Well shit," Zaeed observed, but his voice was lost in the blaring tumult. Still, it was not hard to guess what he'd said. Something had gone wrong below. Shepard and Kasumi had been caught.

The party dissolved into chaos in seconds. Everywhere people were shouting. Guests screamed as the sound of gunfire echoed up from the lower levels, while Eclipse guards scrambled to restore order. Miranda and Zaeed found themselves rustled up out of their chairs by one assault-rifle wielding merc, who shouted ineffectually underneath the roar of the alarm bells.

"Everybody out!" an Eclipse woman was shouting through a wrist-mounted megaphone, holographic tech armor panels blooming around her. "Party's over, go go go!"

The guests stampeded for the doors in a rush of pushing and shoving and trampling feet. A second Eclipse guard grabbed Miranda by the shoulder and shoved her towards the exit, brandishing a pistol in one hand. Everything was tangled limbs and shouting and the booming wail of the klaxons.

And somewhere in the chaos, Miranda's careful planning evaporated.

The Eclipse guard who'd pushed her never knew what hit him as her boot rose to contact his chin. He fell backwards with a crash, toppling a statue in the process, and Miranda was on top of him, wrestling the gun out of his hands as he struggled, confused.

"Miranda!" Zaeed bellowed from somewhere behind her, and she felt armored hands on her shoulders as another guard tried to tear her off of the downed man. The gun in her hand jumped twice, silencing the fallen merc's shouts in two plumes of blood that spattered across Hock's polished marble floors.

At the sound of gunfire the crowd evaporated, scattering every which way like startled deer, a chorus of screams as they clawed desperately to get away from the fighting. Half of the Eclipse guards were trampled under terrified partygoers in an instant.

Everything was chaos as Miranda twisted in the grip of the second merc like a mink, stomping down on the man's insole and pushing with all her not-inconsiderable strength. He staggered backwards, helmeted head slamming against the floor before Miranda finished him off with another shot from her stolen pistol.

A third guard came surging towards Miranda, assault rifle firing

"Massani!" Miranda shouted, diving and rolling to avoid a burst of gunfire that powdered one of Hock's exquisite columns, covering bookcases and fine art alike in ash.

"What?" Even in air thick with dust, Zaeed's broad form was easy to make out amongst the crowd, the other partygoers parting like water around him as he stood amongst the chaos, a bemused look on his face.

Miranda came surging out of the dust, knee first, and planted her weight right into the standing guard's gut. He stumbled backwards, coming to a stop against an astonished Zaeed.

Then Zaeed found himself, set a heavy hand on either side of the merc's head, and twisted. There was a gruesome snap and the man crumpled.

It was only seconds, and three armed men lay dead.

"Come on!" Miranda ordered, pointing to the third guard's fallen assault rifle. She emptied a few pistol rounds into his head before making a beeline for the front doors. She had to hurry. There was no _time _to be thoughtful or calculating or unemotional. There was only time to end this, _now._

"Jesus, Princess," Zaeed cursed, grabbing the weapon. He followed Miranda out of the front doors to the terrace where a pair of abandoned hover limousines idled. "What are we-"

"Follow me," she shouted, ignoring his question and peering down at the grounds in front of Hock's estate. Below her, she could see a small platoon of guards scrambling up the hill from the security barracks, drawn by the pounding alarms and gunfire. Guests ran the other direction, scattering to waiting cars or taking cover behind decorative shrubs. Miranda scanned desperately for her father, praying he'd run into someone he hadn't told about his Starhook system yet. Praying he hadn't left the premises yet.

There was a man in a black suit. Too tall. There was another. Too fat.

Then she saw him. Still wet, his suit stained with the spilled drinks, his lavish cane glinting in the setting sun. He scrambled for a hovercar at the far end of the grounds, rushing to escape as fast as his stiff leg could take him. Rushing off for safety, rushing off to go kidnap her sister.

Like hell.

Fury radiated from her thoughts as Miranda bolted after him, pistol drawn and firing.

Eclipse guards returned fire but she ignored it, sprinting down the hill with mad purpose. She was a blur, almost Olympian as she vaulted the hood of one of the abandoned limos, rolled, and kept going.

Far below her, her father was getting away. He'd tossed aside his cane and now he half-stumbled, frantic, afraid, as if he knew what was coming. Just a few meters left.

Gunfire rained in all directions.

Her father reached the hovercar door and dove inside.

She squeezed the trigger, saw the car jolt with the impact. She'd missed. The door slammed. She kept firing, saw the car's rear viewscreen shatter, saw bulletholes appear in its door panels. She squeezed the trigger again and again, even as the car lifted off and veered away, desperate to escape.

Time seemed to slow as she finally stopped running in the middle of a decorative garden. She breathed, focusing herself, drawing on thousands of hours of marksman training back on Earth. Drawing on gene mods that improved her spatial recognition, her depth perception, her fine muscle coordination. She fired and fired and fired until the hovercar was a speck in the distance

"Get" _boom_ "back" _boom _"here" _boom _"you" _boom_ "BASTARD!" she shouted.

Then suddenly she felt herself thrown to the ground, tackled behind cover and crushed under a man's weight.

"Are you," Zaeed panted above her, "Goddamn. Insane!?" He was out of breath, having sprinted the distance behind her.

"Get off!" she demanded. The car!

"You're unshielded you crazy bitch!" he snarled, rolling off of her. "Get your head back in the goddamn game!"

Miranda rose to a crouch and peered around the edge of the stairwell wall Zaeed had tossed her behind. The hovercar was gone, her father with it.

Her heart felt like it was going to explode. Oriana...

Gunfire erupted all around them. A half dozen Eclipse guards had taken positions down the hill and sent suppressing fire screaming up at the terrace. Projectiles pinged off of the limos, shattered Hock's windows, sent tiny puffs of vaporized concrete flying. It was only by sheer luck she had avoided being hit already.

Even so, it was only reluctantly that the calculating part of her resurfaced and reminded her that Zaeed was right. She was going to get herself killed.

"I apologize," she said, and she meant it. She did Oriana no good by dying. She cradled her stolen gun as rational thought returned to her. She would have other chances. She could still save Oriana. She just had to survive.

"Great goddamn job," Zaeed was bickering, peering out around from the other end of the stairwell and ducking back from the blistering hail of gunfire that responded. "This is a goddamn _fantastic_ position you've put us in."

Miranda ignored him. Her mind was working again. She remembered the estate's schematics – at least those she could find on the extranet – with perfect clarity. Hock had spared no expense defending his art collections – aside from more than thirty mercenary guards to defend just three entrances, the estate was rigged with heuristic spectrophotometric scanner suites, a pair of state-of-the-art security VI's connected directly to Rothschild's extensive police network, and biometrics that made the ones on the Citadel look like toys. Hopefully Goto had dealt with the external alarms, or they would be swamped with police in a matter of minutes. "I saw three Eclipse positions, Mr. Massani," she said. "Correct?"

Zaeed nodded, eyes narrowed, his own gun clenched in his hands. "Eleven, twelve, and two o'clock," he agreed. "Two o'clock mighta had an asari."

Miranda closed her eyes, envisioning the battlefield. "I saw a service entrance on the north face of the building that will lead to the lower levels," she said. "I propose we eliminate the eleven o'clock group and then make a run for the patio." She gestured to a position up by Hock's house with a nice, long, chest-high wall that would make excellent cover. "From there we can engage the other two groups and keep them away from the service door and away from Shepard. Is that acceptable?" That was their best chance at survival, and once Shepard and Kasumi rejoined them they would have no difficulty eliminating the Eclipse force down to the last man.

Zaeed nodded his understanding. "No more theatrics," he ordered.

"Agreed," Miranda said, and they got to work. Zaeed was right - their position was too far forward, too undefended compared to the Eclipse firing points - but it didn't matter. Human perfection and the galaxy's greatest mercenary were not foes to be trifled with, and they made efficient work out of the guards. No more theatrics. Just thoughtful, calculating, unemotional strategy.

But all the same, every man Miranda shot just looked like her father to her.

* * *

_13 years previously…_

_–_

The day had come.

Miranda waited by the magtrain tracks where she'd promised to meet Niket, nervously gripping the straps of her backpack. She'd packed it the night before in the cover of darkness – some fraction of her enormous wardrobe, some money, a few replacement omni-tool parts, some other things she couldn't even remember. Enough to fill the bag until it was ready to burst. Enough to live on, she hoped - she'd never been away from the luxuries of home and it was hard to guess what she needed.

The excitement of the moment and memories of when she'd packed a very similar bag for Birte filled her head.

The day had finally come. Twelve days ago Oriana had been decanted at a secure facility and transported to Lawson manor with her wet nurse. Healthy and screaming, two ounces heavier than Miranda had been. No abnormalities. New perfection.

And so it was time for old perfection to leave. She was not going to sit around and wait for her father to marry her off.

It was funny, really. It wasn't long ago that she had been ready to be what her father wanted her to be. She had tried – sincerely tried – to prevent Oriana's birth, but only because of the threat she posed to her claim on Jordennliv. In time she would have even accepted an arranged marriage – she'd marry some manipulatable fool and absorb his company, hopefully something in North America that would give her a power base on the other side of the ocean. And she'd have done it all proudly. That was what she was made for, trained for. That was who she was.

The thought of running away from all that had never even occurred.

But now Miranda wondered why it had taken her so long to see the light. Her father was squandering her, squandering the years of work it had taken to design her, squandering the fortune he'd spent on tutors and experts from around the world; a violin teacher, an Olympian fencer, her rangemaster, her linguistics tutor. Squandering the untold millions she could make him.

And he was going to toss her away like refuse. He had forged perfection and then given up on it.

Harper would not make the same mistake.

Miranda turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. Niket showed up, breathless from the run up from the village. She waved.

"We need to keep this short, Niket," she said as he huffed and puffed his way up to her, his own overtaxed backpack full of possessions. "Your flight leaves in an hour."

"I know," he said, panting. "I just wanted," he swallowed, "I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye, Niket," Miranda said, not without warmth.

He looked at her, and for a moment it was quiet. "You're really doing it, then?"

"Waiting on you, Niket," she said, and smiled to put him at ease.

He reached to pull his backpack off. It hit the gravel with a thud. "And you're sure," he said, picking through one of the back pockets, "that you can't tell me where you're going. Be a pen pal, or something?" He wouldn't look at her.

"It's for your safety," she reminded him. "Yours and your family's. My father will try to get me back. If he finds out you helped me, even suspects…" she trailed off. "You could be in danger. That's why you need to go now." She'd arranged for Niket's father to get a generous job offer from one of her father's competitors in North America, one too tempting to resist. It had worked, and the Bhatnagar had begun moving preparations immediately. Today they were flying out of Frankfurt.

Flying far, far away. To safety.

Niket smiled sadly as he found the object he was looking for, a faded piece of paper. He knew enough not to argue with Miranda when she was right (which was just shy of always). "I'm just… I'm going to miss you," he admitted.

"You'll make new friends. Better friends than me."

"Better than you?" he asked, a brow raised.

"Better _friends_," she repeated, grinning despite herself. "Obviously not better _people _than me."

That laughed as Niket closed the distance between them and they hugged, listening to the crinkle of their jackets in the cold air. The stayed that way for a long time, minds awash with thoughts. "I'll miss you too, Niket," Miranda admitted, barely a whisper.

Then they were done, and they stood looking at each other across the train track. Just like that, their friendship was over.

Neither one of them wanted to be the first one to step away.

It was only after a minute had passed and neither had moved that Niket held out the paper, and Miranda took it. On it was scrawled a pair of names and a UNAS address in Niket's chickenscratch handwriting. Miranda looked at him expectantly.

"I know you said you had a place," he said, looking sheepish, "but if… if you don't… That address is for a couple that would take you. A distant relation. They'd love to take you."

Miranda sighed. "Niket… this would connect me to you." She moved to hand the paper back.

"No, no," Niket insisted. "Haven't spoken to them in years. No connection to my family, not really. _Distant _relations. Just…" He scratched at the back of his neck. "Just in case. Please. Please take it."

Miranda looked at it again. The paper fluttered in the breeze, bizarre in its archaicness. Not a datapad or a holo screen or even a communicator panel. A piece of paper. Useless. Outdated. Obsolete.

Imperfect.

She smiled and put it in her pocket.

–

They left at the same time, heading in opposite directions. Niket went back up the track towards the village and the manor to rejoin his family, and Miranda cinched her backpack straps a little tighter and turned towards the great unknown. She listened to Niket's crunching steps recede into quiet.

And then as soon as he was out of earshot she tossed the backpack in the ditch and turned around, fiery determination in each step.

Back to the house.

Her guns felt heavy in their holsters.

She had one loose end left.

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

Miranda could not precisely remember joining Cerberus at all, and it was a rare detail that she _ever _forgot. She remembered in perfect clarity the first time she'd put on the uniform, a white-and-black jumpsuit she'd rarely taken off for years afterwards. She remembered the first time she'd seen the logo, stamped on a man's armored chest as he waited for her, leaned up against a shuttle atop a cold hill. She remembered her first assignment as Sayleigh Walker. She remembered every word of that first conversation with The Illusive Man on Cronos, the day he'd explained to her why she could never call him Mr. Harper again.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember the critical moment when she'd decided to be not just a free woman but a _Cerberus _woman.

But a Cerberus woman she'd been, all the same. She'd skyrocketed up the ranks. She had been assigned wet work for Anubis Cell by the time she was sixteen. By eighteen she was head of deep field logistics. By nineteen she was working side by side with the Illusive Man himself. At twenty-three she'd been tasked with bringing a man back to life. She was the shining star of the whole organization, second in command only to the Illusive Man, and he'd treated her very well.

Now she was betraying his orders. She was abandoning her post.

But she had no choice. The request for help she'd sent to Cerberus' network had produced no answer.

And Shepard had.

"It's four skyrises," Jacob was explaining, pointing at the holoprojector. "All called Naysyara Tower. Best I can tell, there's easy access from three sides." He traced the routes, causing colorful icons to bloom at his fingertips. "Major skylanes, big enough to fly a gunship on without attracting attention."

"So it's wide open," Shepard said, a determined grimace buried in one hand. His eyes flickered across the projected map. "They could land troops on any of the skypads. Or all of them. Hold the whole complex at once and keep it that way until they have Oriana offworld." He pointed and the image swirled in confusion for a few seconds before realigning to face him. Shepard frowned.

"This would be easier in the CIC," Jacob offered yet again as he dragged the image back to its proper orientation. The holoprojector in Shepard's quarters had never been designed for multiple users at once.

"It's fine," Shepard insisted, folding his hands behind his back to keep from disturbing the map again. "We'll do it here. Keep going," he said, nodding towards one of the towers. "What kind of roof access?"

Jacob hesitated, catching Miranda's eye for the briefest second. It wasn't hard to guess why they had crammed into Shepard's cabin instead of plotting their mission in the usual place. Miranda's brief trip through the ship had already turned more than a few heads. The rumors would be flying already.

Miranda just shook her head. It didn't matter to her _what _the gaggling fools that crewed the ship thought. Besides, no head had turned so sharply as Garrus'. He had not torn his gaze away from Miranda since she'd come aboard, just leaned against Shepard's empty fish tank with an obvious look of mistrust on his plated face.

"It... uhh... It's not all bad news," Jacob continued. "There's probably no roof access." He pointed to the ornate, spire-like roofs of the structures. "These overhangs are only a meter or two deep, for VIP skycars. Eclipse mostly runs A-61's. No place to land at all. Unless they're packing one of the older A-50's they'll have to land down here," he pointed to the plaza nestled between the four towers, "and take a service elevator up."

"So if we surveill all four elevators and keep an eye on the plaza…"

"Exactly," Jacob said.

Shepard rubbed at his chin a moment more before nodding, satisfied. He turned. "I'll call Liara to see if she can get us eyes on the towers."

"Shepard," Garrus said, the first he'd said in many minutes. "Wait." Shepard stopped. Garrus gestured towards Miranda. "Is she back on the ship?"

Shepard's face fell a little. As much as Garrus had glared, Shepard had not so much as met Miranda's eyes since they'd spoken on the Kodiak ride back, since he'd agreed to help her. He followed Garrus' gesture to stare at her now, and hardly held it a second before turning away, face guilty. "Now is not the time," he evaded, turning back to his communicator console. He tapped the keys, calling up a link to Dr. T'soni's office.

"Back off, Garrus," Jacob warned, eyes narrowed in anger. He took a threatening step towards the turian.

Garrus ignored him. "Now _is_ the time, Shepard," he insisted, voice quiet. He continued to look at Miranda with his beady little eyes. Miranda simply stared back. "Are we letting our guard down because her sister is moving?"

"She's being _abducted," _Jacob corrected.

Garrus shook his head. "I don't like it," he admitted. If anything, Miranda's silence seemed to be unnerving him more than if she was defending herself. "I want a straight answer."

"I just want my sister," Miranda said. Somehow, all of the anxiety she'd felt about the _Normandy _over the past weeks seemed to evaporate. For the first time, she honestly, truly didn't care about Shepard, about the Collectors. About any of it. But she needed help, and Jacob and Shepard were the closest things she had to friends anymore. "I want her safe. That's all I care about."

Garrus' mandibles flickered in irritation. He had a younger sister - Miranda remembered her from the dossier - but he was stony-faced at her words.

Shepard, on the other hand, nodded, convinced. "You don't have to go," he said, staring at his turian friend. "I'm leaving you here. It will just be Jacob and Miranda and I. Just a few hours." At Garrus' silence, Shepard's shoulders fell. "We'll talk about it, Garrus," he promised. "You asked me to trust you when you took her off. Now I'm asking you to trust me."

"Now that you are letting her back on," Garrus finished, disapproval plain on his alien face.

Shepard didn't answer, instead busying himself with the communicator. He did not meet his turian friend's eyes.

It didn't matter, because Garrus kept staring at Miranda.

–

Jacob had ostensibly been assigned to escort Miranda around the ship for the crew's safety, but the way he was acting it was obvious who he was _really _protecting. All the same, people stared as the two of them made their way down to the crew deck, ignoring the way Jacob glared at them to get back to work.

Miranda paid the gawkers no mind. Her thoughts remained on her sister. Every other thought felt numb and unmoving. Even as she scanned the _Normandy, _noting the tiniest details of the repair jobs, of the crew dress code, of Samara's serene expression as she passed by, her mind refused to process any of them. Like she was in a dream.

"We'll get you a new gun," Jacob was saying, gesturing to the pistol she'd lifted off of the Eclipse guard on Bekenstein that didn't quite fit into her holster and swung bulkily with each step. "Don't have the mats to make a perfect replacement straightaway, but we can get you an older model Laumannfor the time being and I'll make the requests for top of the line licenses."

"That's fine," Miranda said. It would do the job.

Jacob stared at her for a moment, concern on his face, but did not bring it up. "Your... your omni-tool is gone too, I'm afraid. The quarian got to it before I could and had it taken apart by the time I found her." He looked at his feet. "All the data's gone, Miranda. I'm sorry."

Miranda said nothing, turning to head towards her quarters until Jacob's hand on her back stopped her. She turned to look at him.

"Not going to want to go in there either, Miri," he said. He looked ashamed. "Mordin's taken it over. I... don't think anyone thought you'd be back."

Miranda stared at the door to her former quarters. The thought of lab equipment disrupting her previously-pristine organization made her want to spit, but there was nothing for it. "We'll see if I am," she said, sighing.

"Of course you are," Jacob insisted, leading her back the other direction to the shared crew quarters. "Shepard never told Garrus to do what he did, you know. He was asleep at the time. Garrus acted all on his own." Two crewmembers working at the consoles looked up when they entered, twin looks of astonishment on their faces before they scampered out like they were on fire. Jacob cast an angry glare after them until the door cut it off with a _shick._

Jacob and Miranda were alone.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the neatly-made bunks.

"You can have mine," Jacob said, reaching up to drag the blankets off of one of them. "I've been sleeping in the armory or the inducers lately anyway," he lied. "I know it's not like you're used to, but it's comfortable enough. Just try to sleep second shift if you can - Donnelly is on third and he snores." He faked a grin.

Miranda didn't return it.

"Also," Jacob said, reaching into a pocket, "I _did _manage to nab your amp before they got to it. Almost had to fight Jack for it." He tossed the amp to her.

Miranda stared at her old amp. It was mostly clean and undamaged but for a few reddish smears along the crevasses of the hookup panel where her blood had stained it. She lifted her hair and hooked the amp back into place behind her neck. It settled with a content click and hummed to life, filling her head with a familiar buzz that felt just as unreal as the rest of the _Normandy. _Miranda regarded Jacob with a weak smile. "Thank you, Jacob," she said.

"Miri... We'll save her. You know that."

"Yes," she agreed.

"You're alright?"

Miranda stared at him. Of course she wasn't alright, and he knew it very well. He hadn't coddled her in years, not since she'd beaten the habit out of him in their second mission together. Now he was practically hovering with worry.

"I'm fine," she said, brushing thoughts of Oriana, of her father from her head.

Jacob's eyes narrowed. Miranda had never been a fantastic liar, but against him she was positively hopeless.

She was about to repeat herself when Jacob hugged her in a crushing embrace, and for once in her life she hugged back.

–

Her room was a mess. As soon as Jacob had headed off to get her a new gun, she'd left the crew quarters behind to take a look at the damages. She'd been unable to resist.

Now she wished she had taken him more seriously.

Her room was almost unrecognizable. She'd expected to see it trashed, ruined in the wake of her fight with Garrus. Maybe even still covered in cohexisol. Some testament to what had transpired there.

But it was gone. Her bed, her desk, her console, her closets, every single item had been removed. In their place were dozens upon dozens of scientific instruments and incubators that hummed quietly about their work. The walls had been made immaculate and shone white, unblemished with bloodstain or scratch. The only closet compartment still present - where she'd kept her extra softsuits - was full of electronic equipment and beakers.

There was not a hint at all that someone had ever lived there.

Miranda's eyes were wide as she paced the room, staring at each offense in turn. She could name most of the lab machines well enough from her time with Lazarus Cell, but the thousands upon thousands of samples in each incubator were beyond her comprehension, labelled in tiny scratches of Goroti salarian shorthand that Miranda suspected even EDI could not translate. Even with the loss of most of his lab equipment in the collector attack, Mordin had made good progress on his attempts to study collector tissue, and many of the plates - previously dead - were bespeckled in brown-black growths that ringed the electric fields the salarian had set beneath them like biological halos.

The room stank like life and chemicals.

Everything was gone. Even if Shepard _did _let her stay - and a sneaking voice inside her tried not to cackle at the knowledge that he would - it would take weeks to set it back the way it was. And that was assuming Mordin didn't tranquilize her first.

Whether she was back or not, she wasn't XO anymore. They had thrown her out and given her room to collector cell cultures without a second thought.

Miranda didn't know why that thought upset her so much.

The door slid behind her and she turned, expecting to see Jacob with the same nervous smile on his face.

But Garrus was not Jacob, and Garrus was not smiling.

Miranda met his eyes, and for a long moment the two of them stood in silence in the very room where he'd gassed her.

"Nineteen hundred meters," Garrus said finally.

Miranda stared at him.

"When I did my initials for Spectre training in Cipritine, that was my final rating. Given twenty-five seconds to aim, I could hit a target nineteen hundred meters away with ninety-eight percent accuracy." He stared at the sniper rifle in his hand. "It's been mostly close quarters since then. Haven't kept it polished. But I could still do fifteen hundred easy."

"So?"

Garrus stared at her, predator eyes gleaming. "There are eight buildings less than fifteen hundred meters from the the Naysyara Towers. Eight vantage points from which I could kill you if I wanted. It would be easy."

Miranda did not blink. She'd heard tale of better turian snipers, and Garrus would not intimidate her now. Her mind was dominated instead by images of her father hobbling for his life, of her bullets glancing off of his hovercar, a mere four hundred meters away. Garrus would have made such a shot with ease. But that was very different. "There are only three meters between us now," she pointed out, toeing the floor tiles. "Should be even easier."

Garrus stared daggers at her. He was still.

"No?" Miranda asked, smiling sweetly at him. "Why not? Out of grenades?" She took a few steps towards the steely turian, watching his eyes follow her path in silence. "Don't favor your chances in a rematch?" she asked. Some part of her mind leapt at the idea. Garrus had caught her by surprise before, had had to use gas. A fair fight would be decidedly less fair, no matter how much he outweighed her.

Garrus seemed to realize this too, and said nothing.

"That's what I thought," Miranda said, reaching up to pat the scarred side of the alien's face.

She turned back to the room. "I was impressed, Garrus," she said, trailing her hand down the door of another incubator. "Really, I was. You managed to do something unexpected for once in your life, and you beat me. You could have been rid of me forever."

She stared at another plate. "But you left me alive," she said. "You _almost _made your own decision. _Almost _got out of someone's shadow." She stared at him. "But you let what Shepard would think interfere, and it cost you your one chance. You won't get another one."

Garrus was silent.

"So I have a proposition for you, Mr. Vakarian." She stared viciously at him, daring him to speak. "Attack me again, whenever you like, and see if you catch me unawares. See what happens to you this time." She held out her arms. "Or," she said, "We can work together. You can follow orders like you're supposed to. You can accept that this is a _Cerberus _ship as much as it is Shepard's, and stop sabotaging the mission with your petty mistrust."

Some part of Miranda wanted to blackmail the turian into something more. He could follow them to Illium, set up one of his oh-so-special vantage points, and keep an eye out for her father. Her father was generally too much of a micromanager, too self-important, too _stupid_ to sit back on Earth where it was safe and let Eclipse do the job for him, and there was a very good chance he'd come to Illium to oversee Oriana's capture. He wouldn't be on the front lines, but he'd be near. And if he was, Garrus could kill him. He wouldn't escape a proper sniper, no matter how fast he hobbled.

But as much as she pretended to be able to predict Garrus, she knew she shouldn't push it. It would be all too easy for the turian to put a bullet in _her _head instead, and Shepard might never know the difference.

She had to take the high road.

"If you do," she said, "I am willing to consider your _massive _lapse in judgment a _temporary _massive lapse in judgment and let bygones be bygones. It's a small price to pay for my forgiveness."

Garrus' mandibles flickered. He was thinking.

She let the silence drip for a few seconds.

"And if you _don't,_" Miranda added finally, smiling, "I will _kill _you, like you should have done to me. _I _have no reason to chain you up where your little girlfriend can find you."

Then, with a swish of her hair, she headed for the door, confident her point was made. Garrus would do what she said. He understood that he'd lost, that Shepard would not send Miranda away again. He understood vengeance. And he understood that she would not let him catch her unawares again.

"Nineteen hundred meters," Garrus called after her.

Miranda ignored him.

* * *

_13 years previously…_

_–_

"_Fifteen million credits… And I will take over your education, at my expense."_

Miranda's gun had never felt so heavy. Her hands shook.

At the other end of the barrel, Oriana cooed obliviously. She was alert for two weeks old, eyes darting about her pen at the diagrams and drawings painted thereon, at six different alphabets, at drawings of all of the major sentient races, a map of the galaxy. Things that before long she would be compelled to memorize, to repeat each morning, to be slave to for the rest of her life.

"_Once I deem your education complete, you will have an additional million credits per year until you choose to leave my employ."_

Miranda swallowed heavily and adjusted her grip. She had to do it. In the preceding months she had tried – earnestly, desperately – to take Niket's advice and not see her gestating sister as a threat. They were twins, identical within point eight percent. Made by the same techniques. Made from the same blueprints. Identical within point eight percent. They were effectively equals.

But Miranda would always be just ninety-nine point two percent equal of Oriana, not the other way around. Oriana was updated. Genetically superior. Where Miranda was once perfection, the slow crawl of technology had taken that title from her and gifted it to her sister.

As long as Oriana was alive, she was nothing. She had not been able to stop Oriana from being born, but she _could _stop Oriana from growing up.

"_But more importantly, you will have resources. Other people that see the way you do. You will have drive. Power. Purpose."_

She knew there would be no going back from it. Her old life was was going to be Cerberus now.

She would not go on any missions straightaway, of course. Harper had said he wanted to finish her education. Finish honing her where her father had discarded her. _Fifteen million credits,_ he'd said, but Miranda didn't care about the money anymore. Money was simple. Material. Any dynasty built on money, however great, would eventually die.

"_In exchange, all I ask is that you give me your best, at all times, in everything I ask."_

Harper was offering her a chance to be part of a _real _dynasty. A _permanent _dynasty. A dynasty for her and everyone like her. A dynasty for perfection.

He had been playing his game a long time. And now he wanted a partner. He wanted her to help him win it for the humans.

"_I expect for you to master every subject and discipline I set before you."_

She would need to be perfect. Without reservation. Without hesitation, even in the face of the darkest tasks.

She leveled the gun at her sister once more, grimacing.

But then Oriana reached up to touch Miranda's pistol, unaware of the danger. Her fingers wrapped around the barrel. And then she looked at Miranda, and for the first time the sisters locked eyes.

Miranda lowered her gun, unable to look away from her twin. She found herself remembering the paper Niket had given her.

"_I expect for you to become part of an ideal."_

She had no reason to do it. She had no real connection to Oriana. No real feelings for the child. They weren't sisters - not really. Oriana's existence invalidated everything Miranda was, everything Miranda ever would be.

And yet it had taken her thirteen years to realize what a grave injustice her father had committed against her. Somehow leaving Oriana to the same fate seemed unacceptable.

She didn't know why, but the decision came to her in an instant, and she pulled out her communicator. She dialed in the number Harper had given her. Someone on the other end picked up immediately, silently.

"Tell him my price went up," she said, more confident than she'd ever been about anything. "If he wants my help, he has to do something first."

"_I expect you to strive for perfection for yourself, and for all of humanity."_

* * *

_Presently…_

_–_

He'd been silent to her calls for weeks, and yet somehow Miranda knew the Illusive Man would be waiting for her now. Oriana had been saved, and Niket had been killed, and yet there was only one thing on her mind. As soon as she'd stepped back aboard the _Normandy _she'd set to rearranging the former conference room, pushing Mordin's samples aside until there was enough room to use the QEC.

The Illusive Man's image and flickered as she stepped onto the platform. He was sitting in his usual chair, his usual cigarette perched in his hand, his usual unreadable expression on his face.

Miranda wasted no time. "_You_ did it," she accused. Her head was awash with an angry storm of thoughts.

The Illusive Man took a decadent draw from his cigarette, glittering eyes staring through her. He exhaled slowly. "I did," he admitted.

Miranda hadn't wanted to believe it, but by the time they'd left the towers, Enyala and Niket and a half dozen Eclipse mercs dead behind them, her head had been fixed on betrayal. It hadn't been hard to make the last elusive jump to the truth.

And once she'd made it, it was inescapable. It made sense of all the data.

Miranda shook her head. "Why?" she asked, and her voice sounded very small, even to her.

"It was a necessary evil," the Illusive Man said, utterly unruffled. "I tasked you with securing Shepard's trust and you could not. I had to pursue alternative options."

"Alternatives like Oriana?" Miranda demanded. "You are _not _taking her."

The Illusive Man's face didn't move, but all the same Miranda saw the flicker of surprise there. "After so long, is that still what you fear?" he asked, and his voice had a strange pity in it that she had never heard before. "I don't want her," he said. "Nor do I want her in Henry Lawson's hands to be ruined." He stared at her. "I wanted _you_ on the _Normandy. _Back in Shepard's trust."

Miranda looked at her feet. So it had all been about Shepard. All a game to make her vulnerable before Shepard, make her need his help, make him unable to send her away. That was why the Illusive Man hadn't retaliated against her expulsion from the ship. Why he hadn't contacted her, why he'd thrown her into a thankless assignment, beneath her talents but in Shepard's path.

Garrus had been right - it was all a trick, a game. All for Shepard's benefit.

And Orianahad been a pawn.

And _she _had been a pawn.

Miranda had never felt so violated. And she'd never felt so stupid. "I fell for it. You..." She stared at him as if she was only now seeing him, her tongue frozen. "I did exactly what you wanted." She'd always believed she was _special, _somehow above the petty concerns that made the galaxy so easy to manipulate. She'd always been on the Illusive Man's side - the players, not the pieces. But now that she'd tasted the other team, he had played her as easily as he played anyone else.

The Illusive Man actually smiled. "The trick to this game we play has never been knowing _exactly _what someone will do. It is planning for all eventualities at once. If you had not run into Shepard and your father on Bekenstein, I would have arranged it some other way." He took another draw from his cigarette. "But yes, in this case, I did know exactly what you would do." He looked pleased with himself.

Miranda stared at her feet, feeling very much a child again.

"You're a magnificent creature, Miranda," he continued. "You've never fully believed it, but you are better than your sister will ever be. Better than Shepard will ever be." He paused. "Better than _I _will ever be." The compliment felt empty. "But your perfection comes with a cost. There's only ever one perfect response to any situation. You only ever act one way."

Miranda stared at him.

"Sometimes," he said, "it takes imperfection to get the job done."

"You put Oriana in danger for this," she said, and her fists clenched in rage. "Niket is..." she swallowed heavily. "Niket is _dead_ for this."

"And my plan worked. Oriana is safe. You are back on the _Normandy. _Shepard will not doubt you again, not now that he's seen you like this."

Miranda stared at him.

"Make me proud," he said. "Like you always do." He terminated the call.

–

_You only ever act one way._

Miranda snarled as she palmed the button that would take her back up to Shepard's quarters.

–

* * *

**Codex Entry: Transcript of the audio log of Dr. Mordin Solus, Normandy SR2 science lab, 04-08-2186**

_Mordin Solus: Plate samples, nutrient mix 210.2 plus BC additive, group three plates show growth. Sixteen replicates, average of sixty-three point four colony forming units represents thirteen percent capture efficiency. Hmm... Improving._

_*audible beep*_

_EDI: Statistical analyses are updated, Dr. Solus._

_Mordin Solus: Good. Promising results. Will expand experiment, BC variants against ergoline/hydrocarbon mix additives in 210 nutrient mix variants, all primary and secondary cell morphologies._

_EDI: Your proposed experiment would require one hundred fourteen thousand plates and a combined storage and incubation volume of approximately three point six cubic meters._

_Mordin Solus: Acceptable. New laboratory space in former XO quarters suitable._

_EDI: It will take fifty-seven minutes to equilibrate to standard growth conditions array._

_Mordin Solus: Noted. In meantime will revisit secondary project, Horizon N103, Solus, experiment four one eight._

_EDI: Ongoing engineering project Horizon N103, Experiment 418 resumed at 8:42:18 Earth standard time. Last modified on 04-02-2186 at 18:48:42 Earth standard time in shared crew quarters. Resuming audio log record as per standing Cerberus orders. _

_Mordin Solus: (sighs) Log recordings still requested?_

_EDI: Yes, Dr. Solus. Operative Lawson's absence defers maintenance of all previous orders to Operative Taylor. Logging operations shall continue unless Operative Taylor or outside Cerberus personnel indicate otherwise._

_Mordin Solus: Suspect Mr. Taylor uninterested in laboratory audio logs._

_EDI: Operative Lawson may yet return._

_Mordin Solus: Unlikely. Foolish to operate under that assumption._

_EDI: Then I must inquire as to why you've kept the doctored wedding photo._

_Mordin Solus: Hmm… Fair point. _

_*sounds of machine initializing* _

_Very well. Begin log. And summon primary test subject._

_EDI: Recording begins at 8:43:50 Earth standard time. The primary test subject will be with you shortly._

_Mordin Solus: Excellent._

_(clears throat)_

_Project Horizon N103, continuing development of seeker swarm countermeasure. Sensory scramblers performed to expectations on Horizon but subsequent experiments on live specimens of species 01-a have suggested scramblers would be insufficient against high swarm densities. Necessitates development of secondary countermeasures against accidental collision stings or in case of scrambler failure._

_Experiment 418 involves conceptual validation of EL-series 'biotic vaccine' concept developed in experiment 398 in live subject. Can resistance to swarmer paralysis be induced in human subjects? Believe possible. Research on toxin extracts from dissected swarmer specimens suggest nervous interference-based mechanism. Element-zero based toxin injected into bloodstream, rapidly interacts with motor neurons, producing residual mass effect fields upon nerve signal conduction. Similar to mechanism of natural biotics, excepting tight binding of toxin-element zero adducts to nerve tissue. Nerve impulse mass effect fields are focused upon nerves themselves – similar to shearing 'warp' field – resulting in painful localized tissue damage. Nerves reflexively self-paralyze. Unknown why toxin does not affect critical nerves in brain, or sympathetic nervous system. Presumably binding action of toxin-element zero adducts highly specific. Suggests toxin ineffective against non-humans. Experiments pending._

_*knocking sound*_

_Mordin Solus: __Enter_

_Kenneth Donnelly: Hello? EDI said I was needed_

_EDI: __Mr. Donnelly is suffering from an unspecified illness, Dr. Solus. I suggested you might wish to evaluate his condition._

_Mordin Solus: __Excellent. Yes, come in. Please._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Thanks, Doc. I could use the help. _

_Mordin Solus: __Ill, you said. Describe symptoms._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Umm… okay. Exhaustion. My head has been killing me for days. Hardly feel like I can move._

_Mordin Solus: __Fascinating. Go on._

_Kenneth Donnelly: I'm… like… It's like I just woke up. I'm groggy, you know._

_Mordin Solus: __Fatigue expected. Common side effect of element-zero exposure. Should be transient._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Eezo? No, no. I've been careful. The core wasn't damaged. No leaks recently._

_Mordin Solus: _Internal_ exposure, Mr. Donnelly. Most likely direct injection. Please, continue._

_Kenneth Donnelly: …Mordin…_

_Mordin Solus: __Test subject slow to respond. Cognitive decay?_

_Kenneth Donnelly: Wait, test subject? No, no, no, no way Man. I'm not doing that again. Keep those damn bugs away from me._

_Mordin Solus: __'Damn bugs' dead. Dissected. Specimen AM-102 embalmed in preservatives. No further specimens of species 01-a acquired. Should be safe from repeat incident. Future tests, free of insect analogs._

_Kenneth Donnelly: I don't care. I am sick, Mordin. I've got these damn headaches, and I-_

_Mordin Solus: __Test subject reports headaches. Unexpected._

_Kenneth Donnelly: No! Stop it! I'm not a test subject_

_Mordin Solus: __Test subject displaying irritability._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Stop writing!_

_Mordin Solus: (sighs) __Test subject displaying selfishness, unwillingness to assist in critical studies for protection of ground team. Very well. Experiment 418 suspended. Without willing human test subjects of sufficiently durable physiology, must discontinue countermeasure research project Horizon N103. Hope electronic countermeasures sufficient for future missions. Would hate to see inconveniently timed paralysis of critical squad member result in mission failure. _

_Thank you for your time, Mr. Donnelly._

_Kenneth Donnelly: W… Mordin, wait. I'll… I'll do it._

_Mordin Solus: __Excellent. Knew you would agree._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Yeah, whatever. Just… just make it quick._

_*sound of Mordin Solus rummaging through equipment*_

_Mordin Solus: __Beginning phase two of experiment 418, testing immunity in human subject pre-inoculated with biotic vaccine test inoculant EL-13._

_Kenneth Donnelly: Wait… phase _two_?_

_Mordin Solus: Biotic vaccine was delivered to Mr. Donnelly at t equals zero on April second, 2186, Earth standard time. Subject was sleeping at time of injection, and has displayed signs of fatigue, cognitive decay, head pain, irritability, and selfishness. Will investigate side effects further._

_Kenneth Donnelly: __You've been drugging me in my _sleep_? I've been sick because of _you_?_

_Mordin Solus: t equals one hundred thirty four hours. Preparing to inject three milliliters of paralytic toxin, sample 616 from dissected seeker swarm specimen AM-103. Sting will be simulated using pneumatic dart. Delivery mechanism believed to accurately replicate actual sting in delivery volume, concentration, location, and pain response. _

_*__sounds of dart-launcher initializing*_

_Kenneth Donnelly: _Pain response_!? Mordin, wait! I've changed my mind._

_Mordin Solus: Subject showing signs of unreasonable paranoia. Attempting to flee._

_Kenneth Donnelly: __It's not unreasonable! You're insane, you're frickin' insane!_

_Mordin Solus: Upon injection, please attempt to move until you are no longer able in order to assist measurement of paralysis kinetics._

_*crashing sound*_

_Kenneth Donnelly: __No, no, Mordin n-ahhh!_

_*sound of pneumatic hiss as dart fires*_

_*inaudible*_

_*more crashing*_

_*sound of Kenneth Donnelly stumbling to floor, paralyzed*_

_Mordin Solus: Fascinating. Subject successfully travelled one point four meters before complete paralysis. Evidence for mild immunity at low doses._

_Kenneth Donnelly: __*inaudible*_

_Mordin Solus: Congratulations, Mr. Donnelly! Immunity approximately one point eight percent, comparable with projected estimates for low dose biotic vaccination. Experiment 418 successful._

_EDI: Dr. Solus. Mr. Donnelly's heart has stopped beating_

_Mordin Solus: (sigh) Very well. Experiment 418 a _qualified_ success. Some alterations to protocol necessary. Will keep adrenaline cocktails on hand for resuscitations. _

_*sound of Mordin Solus rummaging through equipment*_

_Still, results encouraging, yes? Should begin design of follow up experiments. Alter dosage, additives, delivery method, delay period._

_EDI: Yes, Dr. Solus. I will begin preparing mixes for experiment 419._

_Mordin Solus: Good. Please request Dr. Chakwas perform a physical check-up on Mr. Donnelly when he awakens in a few hours._

_EDI: Of course, Dr. Solus. Shall I inform her as to why?_

_Mordin Solus: Hmm... Not aware of any immediate need for disclosure._

_EDI: Of course, Dr. Solus._

_–_

* * *

**A/N: **And, once again, I return. With another chapter-that-could-choke-a-horse. Seriously, this chapter took me like five nights in a row just to edit.

This is a chapter I've wanted to write for a long time. I was wary from the beginning of changing major plot elements of the game, but I thought that there was one that really, really needed it, and that was Miranda's defection from Cerberus at the end of the game (especially given that it happens no matter what choices you make). The idea of Miranda - an intelligent woman who defends the philosophy behind Cerberus the whole game - suddenly abandoning deep-seated beliefs for no reason that I can see other than "SHEPARDS TEH HERO LOL" strikes me as a pretty glaring disservice to the character. I hope you guys can see why I think this chapter mostly fixes that issue.

Should be 6 chapters left. I keep rearranging, though (and agonizing about whether to add a seventh one about Jack), so who knows?

Many thanks, as always, to my betas (in this chapter, Angurrvdel, Vocarin, and hcjung10), my readers, and all the people who take the time to review/PM/email/twitter me. Thanks, guys. Thanks also to Koobismo for the use of his Adam Solheim character.

Chapter 26 was a goddamn good time to write. Chapter 27 should just go.


	26. Chapter 26, Defection, Zaeed Massani

**Defection – Zaeed Massani**

* * *

___–_

_36 years previously…_

Zaeed had half the bar to himself.

He nursed his drink territorially, ignoring the feel of the other patrons' eyes on his back. He was armed and armored - hardly in any danger - but all the same the atmosphere set the hairs on the back of his neck straight.

The bar was just a shoddy dive that catered to the handful of local ranchers that hadn't already moved away to escape the CASAI army base a few miles down the road - hardly a warzone. Still, Zaeed was not one to take chances. He was alone, outnumbered, far from help, not to mention still goddamn exhausted. It was not inconceivable that a few pissed-off locals might get the best of him. As a precaution, he'd set his knife on the table next to him in a silent threat to anyone who might mistake him for prey.

He chuckled wearily to himself, taking another swig of the crappy beer he'd been given and hoping it was _only _beer. It was funny how fast things were changing. To hear some of the older soldiers talk the locals had once been welcoming, even friendly to foreigners.

But that was no more. After almost eight years they were tired of CASAI's war. They were tired of CASAI's soldiers. The fact that Zaeed was technically part of the European Union's shock corps – a visiting foreign ally, not a direct CASAI hire – had long ago become a moot point. They wanted him gone, and with the way the war had been going lately, Zaeed didn't blame them.

He was sick of the war too. Sick of grueling marches in the heat. Sick of bad press and bad news.

Zaeed sighed into his glass, reaching up a gauntleted hand to smear the red dust from his face, a souvenir from his most recent foray east, to where the fighting was fiercest. It caked on thickly, suffocating in its endless quest to burrow into every crevasse he had, to soil his supposedly-milk-white armor to the same oppressive orange hue that dominated the Kalahiri's palette. His hair felt solid with grime – how long had it been since he'd seen a proper comb? Or a mirror?

Or a refill?

Zaeed frowned. He'd finished another drink. "Barkeep?" he growled, waggling the empty cup in the air.

Footsteps approached, but it was not the bartender. A man – a foreigner, like him, and clad in a green-and-white jumpsuit that identified him as one of CASAI's logistics men – slid into the chair opposite him, grinning as he tossed a fresh beer in front of Zaeed.

_Finally_. "Bout damn time, Vido," Zaeed growled. "Thought you said it was urgent."

Vido shrugged. "We probably have different definitions of _urgent_," he offered, leaning his feet up on the stool next to Zaeed. If the other bar patrons looked on Zaeed with dislike, they looked on Vido with nothing short of loathing, but Vido paid it no caution. He was unarmed – and half Zaeed's size, to boot – and yet moved with the easy grace of a man who thought himself invulnerable.

"Ain't that the goddamn truth," Zaeed said, setting into his new drink with a grimace. He and the rest of his division had limped into the base earlier that morning, tired and wounded after months of fighting and marching through the desert. Zaeed had had every intention of getting himself a shower, a hot meal, a woman, and a very great deal of booze – in that order – until he'd found Vido's message waiting for him, insisting he trudge a few miles further to meet someplace they wouldn't be overheard.

And so while his fellow soldiers got some much-needed rest, Zaeed had dragged himself to this shithole and its crappy beer and its angry glares without delay, still caked in blood and dust from the march.

Vido, on the other hand, looked to have had enough time to carefully coif his hair. He'd even put on cologne. Prissy bastard.

Vido seemed to read his thoughts as usual. "Cheer up, Buddy," he said. "I have news. While you've been out there screwing around, I've been busy."

"We're not buddies," Zaeed insisted, staring sourly at his mug.

"Oh, please. The beer here isn't _that _bad."

Zaeed glared at him, then down to the empty table, then back to him. "I note you aren't having any."

Vido shrugged again. "I brought my own," he admitted, tapping a flask at his belt. "But I'm sure if I tried it I'd find the drinks here _just as good_ as the ones in the base." Vido grinned with his usual easy confidence, showing straight white teeth.

It was the same grin Vido had given him when they'd first met. A few months back one of Zaeed's fellow soldiers had snapped and killed a house full of civilians, and Vido had showed up at their barracks to interview the rest of the unit for CASAI's inevitably half-assed investigation. He'd been all smiles (though none of them had quite masked his obvious boredom) as he'd dutifully jotted down their accounts and departed.

Zaeed had thought nothing of it until the next evening when Vido hunted him down in the base's bar and introduced himself. Vido Santiago, he'd said, beaming, of the Santiago family in Rio. He'd grinned that same grin and talked and talked and talked, ignoring Zaeed's every attempt to brush him off. He'd radiated pride as he'd explained that his father was one of the richest men in the western hemisphere - even despite the fact that he'd been disowned from the family fortune. He had told him about the company he was starting on the side, in case CASAI should fail and he find himself jobless. He had even told him - quite unashamed - how he had falsified health documents to keep himself out of combat.

At the time it had seemed like cowardice to Zaeed. Now he wasn't so sure.

Vido simply didn't give a shit what people thought about him. Unless he wanted something - then he was all smiles.

"You bring me something?" Vido asked, all smiles.

Zaeed glowered, but all the same he reached up to his left shoulder and detached the hardbox computer unit stowed within. He slid it across the table without a word.

Vido produced a cable from a hidden pocket and hooked the hardbox up to the strange computer he had built into his left sleeve. Projected holography – omnitools, Vido had said with no small measure of pride in his voice, were the newest craze in the Americas – bloomed from his wrist as the link initialized. All of the tactical data Zaeed's armor had collected in the months he'd been away – tracking coordinates, suit camera feeds, damage reports, scanner results and more – whizzed past Vido's eyes and into his omni-tool. "Zaeed Ambrogio Massani," Vido read off from the screens as the data downloaded, "EUAF soldier ID four eight five five one zero three, division four." He chuckled. "I didn't know your middle name was Ambrogio."

Zaeed grunted, busying himself with his drink and trying not to think about the crime he'd become complicit in – CASAI had made it very clear that his armor and every byte of data its sensors collected were their property, and that they would jealously guard it. Vido had insisted that sharing the combat data with him wasn't _technically _illegal – he _was _a CASAI logistics man, after all - but Zaeed knew if they were ever caught they'd (or _he'd_, at least) be in a world of trouble. But the box of fine cigars Vido had paid him upfront for the data had been a mighty comfort on the march, and Zaeed was a man of his word.

Besides, Vido was almost certainly too smart to sell the data to their enemies. It didn't matter how many documents he forged - if the rebels took the base, Vido's head would be tossed in the sand with all the rest of them.

"Well listen," Vido said once he had finished the download and the hardbox was back in Zaeed's pauldron. He leaned back in his seat looking satisfied, like he'd just finished a big meal. "Did you just spend all that time out there fighting, or did you think about what we talked about last time?"

Zaeed had to grit his teeth to resist punching Vido in his self-satisfied, squirrelly little face. "Quit wasting my time," he snarled. "I thought you said you had news."

"I do," Vido admitted, unconcerned, "but nothing we didn't say last time. We're losing." At Zaeed's stony glare, he sighed. "CASAI is blowing it," he elaborated. "They're starting to balk at the money they're spending. They're not looking for clean solutions anymore, just cheap ones. Effective ones. Civilian casualties are up, soldier casualties are up, _and_ they lost a comm station in Johannesburg to rebels last week." He counted out on his fingers. "Mission they sent to reclaim it accidentally blew up half a block."

"Shit."

"It goes on," Vido said. "Long story short, they're pissing everybodyoff. Even your EU boys are threatening to pull out."

Zaeed frowned. As little as he liked the way the war was going in recent years, he had little desire to return to England - or anywhere in the EU, really. The whole continent had become a bit too posh for his tastes, and the only thing waiting for him there was his mother's family, who probably hated him now after the thing between his parents.

Still... better than dying.

"Can I assume you're seeing the same shit on your end?" Vido asked.

By way of answer, Zaeed reached across the table and snatched Vido's flask from his belt. He took a long draught, relishing the burn of the drink – it was real alcohol, no doubt imported from Vido's home overseas. Worlds better than the swill he'd been drinking so far, or even the booze at the base. He ignored Vido's affronted look and drank deeply.

When every drop was gone Zaeed wiped his mouth across his sleeve and tossed the empty flask back to Vido. "Same shit," he agreed finally, leaning back in his seat. "Speeding up the marches. Made us cover thirty, forty miles some days, in full armor. They're fuckin' up the logistics too, not keepin' us stocked. Unit lost three men to cholera just because they didn't have chlorine tablets on hand." Zaeed shook his head, disgusted. "Careless."

Vido nodded knowingly – as if he had ever walked thirty miles in his life. "They don't care about you," he said, shrugging. "They don't have to. They don't equip you that well, they don't pay you that well. So long as CASAI has enough clout to influence the elections, EU practically hands you to them for free. Tells your folks back home it's about freedom or justice or something. Ready-made excuse for when you go back in a body bag."

Zaeed's mind was thick with thought. He'd met Vido – and his sermons about how badly CASAI was screwing up – six months ago, but the man had only lent articulation and outrage to the niggling doubts he'd been having for years. The higher ups were getting careless, plain and simple. They were costing good men their lives. Zaeed was no coward, but fully a third of the casualties he'd seen in the last year were due to mismanagement – friendly fire, disease, exposure, poor intelligence. He'd made it through relatively unscathed so far – the cholera had hit him in a rare moment when they'd been properly stocked, and the worst injury he'd sustained in battle was a concussion when a grenade had exploded too near the makeshift bunker he'd been fighting in – but Zaeed knew even a very gifted soldier could die all too easily to his officers' incompetence.

Zaeed was no coward, but he had no intention of dying over some goddamn acronyms either.

"The good news is they're going to start hiring mercs next week."

Zaeed's brows rose. "No shit?"

"None," Vido insisted, looking pleased with himself. "They were in talks with a few groups all the way back in October. A-Tech Solutions, Solemnova, AMNKA."

Zaeed shook his head, incredulous. "How can they afford that? You said they were broke."

"I said they were _balking_ at the money being spent, but CASAI's fucking loaded. And even if they weren't, they don't have a choice." Vido leaned forward eagerly, hands steepled in front of him. "That influence I mentioned? It's dried up. People are tired of this war. That's why your EU boys are getting ready to pull you out. CASAI has squandered all the goodwill they had, and so if they want anybody to keep fighting they have to break out the checkbook and admit it's a money war. Nobody cares about the issues anymore, but the whole world wants money, and so as long as CASAI keeps the cash flowing everybody's got a horse in this race."

"And ours is the goddamn lame pony," Zaeed finished for him, rubbing his temples in aggravation.

Vido looked genuinely surprised. "Why, because we're losing?" He waved his hand, unconcerned. "It's alright to be on the losing side, so long as you can survive it. There's a lot of money to be made on the losing side. The losing side is scared, the losing side is tired. The losing side can't afford to shop around." Vido looked positively thrilled at the idea. "CASAI wouldn't even _be_ losing if they'd just admitted it was about money from the beginning." He grinned. "But now they're finally about to hand the war over to the mercs."

Zaeed grimaced, staring at the knife on the table. His head was starting to split - the whiskey he'd stolen from Vido was getting to him. Or maybe it was just that Vido was making so much goddamn sense. "So… what's your point?"

"My point, Zaeed _Ambrogio_ Massani, is that people cry when a good little EU trooper doesn't make it home. They'll put little stickers on their cars and be very, very sad." His smile was wicked. "But you'll still be dead."

Zaeed was silent as Vido rose from his seat, casting a few rands across the table to pay for the drinks. He lingered, staring at Zaeed. "No crying or stickers for mercs, Mr. Massani, but you're an investment. And I guarantee there is _nothing_ CASAI wouldn't do for its investments."

* * *

_Presently…_

___–_

Zaeed had been to a lot of planets in his day. He'd been up to his ass in toxic mud on Baumann 2101, he'd taken a piss off of the edge of the great mercuric chasm on Oronto. He'd tasted the iron gas on Pelach, ridden over the lava traps that covered Deccan-palk's southern hemisphere, set boots on worlds with twice Earth's gravity and worlds with half of it.

But Zorya still held a special place at the top of his list as just about the worst hellhole he'd ever known.

Any planet where the goddamn plant life could kill you brooked little competition.

Zaeed held up a fist. "Hold."

Behind him, the rest of the squad froze.

Around them the jungle hummed with life. It was rough terrain, tangled with tree growth and venom-spined shrubs and pools of hip-deep silt. Even with Jack blasting apart the worst of the snarls, they'd spent almost all the Firestorm fuel they'd brought not on Vido's men but on vegetation. It was excruciatingly slow work, and in three hours they'd only carved themselves a half mile or so into the forest. Eventually they'd lucked onto a game trail – left there by Hraka-beasts, if Zaeed remembered his tracking – but it was slow going all the same. The foliage closed in from both sides, tunneling them in greenery, and with the mud and the droppings and the way the air choked with pollen until it was almost yellow, they were all filthy and miserable in minutes.

And so when Zaeed told them to stop, nobody complained. Shepard, Jacob, and Jack plodded to a halt in the mud, staring at Zaeed for explanation with the expressions of woe and borderline-asphyxiation that everyone on Zorya came to adopt behind their breathing masks.

Zaeed flashed a grin, as much to relish his expertise on the planet's dangers as to show off the fact that he wasn't wearing a mask. "Bulta pods," he said, gesturing down the trail to a trio of long, orange-red plants that sprawled down across their path. He licked his lips, gathering up the pollen that had settled there and spitting it onto the forest floor as he drew his rifle up to his shoulder and took aim. He pulled the trigger.

The bulta pods exploded with a spectacular _slurp, _turgor pressure sending orange pulp in long trails that spattered across the path to coat the trees in the jungle beyond. The air darkened with spores.

Zaeed grinned victoriously back at the rest of the squad. "Bulta plants can see you," he said, nodding his approval. "Little eyes under the leaves see light and dark. Walk too close to one and it'll explode." He looked back to the remains of the plants – the bases of their seed pods hung loosely from their stalks, dripping orange liquid to mix with the mud and looking uncannily like decapitated men. "Get any of those seeds on you and you're in for a bad goddamn week," he warned, chuckling.

Shepard – his gray armor coated in muddy water and plant burrs – nodded from behind his mask and gave them the signal to continue, gingerly stepping over the spilled bulta seeds as he passed. Jacob followed suit, pausing to bend aside a branch for Jack (who ignored him, stomping straight through the puddle like it wasn't even there).

"I've seen men die from a direct hit," Zaeed said as they continued their trek down the trail, steadily cutting their way towards the refinery Vido was said to be visiting. "Back when the Suns were first running ops on Zorya. Kid named Ezra, took one right in the face. Practically clawed his eyes out to stop the itching. Choked on his tongue right there in the mud." He clicked his tongue at the memory. "Everybody stumbles onto one eventually, but some guys get it worse than others."

"Jesus," Jacob said.

Zaeed chuckled. Zorya was not a planet for the squeamish. He'd never imagined in a thousand years it would be where his hunt for Vido would finally end - Vido rarely showed his face outside of the most affluent fundraisers and certainly not on uncomfortable backwaters like Zorya - but the intel was solid. Hock's parties had come through in the end. Before Shepard and his two little princesses had shot the place up and killed Hock, Zaeed had gotten ample time with the Blue Sun who'd been unfortunate enough to be the organization's representative at the party. The man had been tough and clever but he'd been young, and all Zaeed had had to do was look intimidating and then break his fingers with a wine corkscrew and he was ready to tell him whatever he needed to know.

Vido was on Zorya overseeing a new factory he'd acquired.

Once they'd pulled into orbit, it had taken EDI less than a minute to intercept transmissions that confirmed it.

It was a narrow window - whatever force had convinced Vido to leave the comfort of civilization would not keep him there long - but it was the best opportunity Zaeed had ever had. Zorya was remote, hidden, had relatively few innocents at risk of collateral damage, and when Zaeed had announced his intentions, even Shepard had admitted that the time had come.

"'Course," Zaeed continued, casually slashing a sapling that had begun growing in their path, "that was just for us grunts. Vido practically owns this planet but I doubt he's been here more than a half dozen times."

"Can you blame him?" Jack asked. She was staring dubiously at another plant, a red-black fruit the size of a trash can that loomed precariously overhead. "This place is a shithole."

Zaeed took a deep sniff. The spores tickled his nostrils fiercely, made everything smell like blood, but all the same he could pick up the rotting stench of the fruit, the damp tang of loam, the heady musk of animal urine. Somehow today it smelled wonderful. "It's useful," he said, remembering Vido explaining it to the rest of the Suns like it had been yesterday. "Good position on the trade routes, no government. No competition from colonists." The Blue Suns had gotten their talons into the planet early, back before any permanent settlements had gotten established, and though Zaeed and his men had had to kill quite a few people to do it, they'd gradually shaped the planet into what they needed.

Or what Vido needed, anyway.

"No breathable air," Jack added.

Zaeed snorted. "Breathable air's overrated."

To be fair, the allergens in the air weregetting to him too. He was breathing it straight, unfiltered, and it was wreaking its havoc. His throat was tight, his tongue swollen and tender. His skin itched uncontrollably, his head felt heavy with clouds. The wounds he'd taken on the collector ship had healed enough for him to take off his brace (and even if they hadn't, there was no way he was going to let Vido see him bandaged) but the leg was still stiff and sent jolts of pain up his side with every step.

And yet all the same Zaeed felt _fantastic. _Younger than he'd felt in _years. _He was Zaeed Goddamn Massani. He was a goddamn lion, a goddamn beast of a man, sixty years old or not.

He'd been to Zorya many times before – built up some immunity to the constant itching – but even if he hadn't, today was not a day to wear a helmet. Call him a sentimental bastard, but he wanted to look Vido straight in the eye before he killed him. He wanted to _see_ every moment. That was worth a little itchiness.

"Tighten your little mask and man up, Jack," he said. "You're just bein' a pansy because this is the first planet we've set foot on that smells worse than you."

Jack made a gesture that would have been considered uncouth even on Omega. "Fuck off, Zaeed," she said, ducking under the fruit and jogging to catch up, her boots squelching in the shallow mud. "You dirty old fucker."

"I'm _Zaeed Goddamn Massani_," he corrected her, smiling as he tapped at his bare head just to egg her on. As soon as they'd made planetfall Jack had taken Zaeed's decision to go maskless as a challenge and had, despite his warnings, left her own helmet in the shuttle, determined not to be outshone. She'd started their journey with a resolved snarl on her lips, and for a minute Zaeed had thought she might actually make it. But then she'd started to wheeze as it became harder to breathe. All in all she'd lasted less than five minutes before she'd been forced to double back. She'd been smoldering at him ever since, but with her eyes still tearing up her expression lost its intended effect.

And Zaeed wasn't alone in ribbing her. "Jack's been doing better on the smell thing," Shepard called over his shoulder, grinning. "She actually took a shower the other night. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"And she's wearing _clothes_," Jacob added.

Jack's face reddened even further and she tossed the others a gesture to match the one she'd given Zaeed. "Fuck off, all of you," she snarled, but even under an oxygen mask her reluctant smile was impossible to miss. To the ship's great surprise, Jack had turned over a new leaf after returning from Pragia. She'd been eating dinner in the crew deck, had not hit anyone in days, and as Jacob had said, had taken to wearing a black vest overtop her Garrus-bone necklace and the usual strap that protected her modesty (or lack thereof). She'd even stopped shaving – but for the strip of medical coding on the back of her skull her head was now covered in a thin wisp of dark brown fur. And as much as her new attitude was helping things go smoothly on the _Normandy, _it was helping her even more. Even on Zorya, with the air swimming with deadly allergens, it was obvious Jack was healthier than she'd been in a long time. Her eyes weren't so dark and sunken, and though she still scratched at herself like a mongrel dog, for once it was the planet's fault and not withdrawal from her most recent drug fix.

She looked good. Practically human, but exotic and powerful too. No ordinary human. It was hard not to stare at her as she stomped through the jungle, tearing foliage in her path like a biotic chainsaw.

"Naw, you look good with hair," Zaeed said, wagging his eyebrows at her. It was true – Zaeed wasn't sure how he'd failed to notice it before, but wreathed in the pollen-y air, slicked with mud and sweat, Jack was actually quite the beauty. He knew hitting on her was barking up the wrong tree – she was half his age and a psychopath to boot – but what could he say? He'd always liked dangerous women.

"And you look like a dried up, scarred old asshole."

Zaeed grinned roguishly, unperturbed. "I prefer 'rugged'. Don't pretend you don't like what you see."

Jack stared at him with a mixture of surprise and revulsion.

Oh yeah. She wanted him. Zaeed winked at her.

Jack actually laughed at that. "You're a rugged _moron," _she insisted, bursting another bulta pod with a quick biotic flick that deflected its payload safely back into the forest, as if to show him she didn't need his guidance to get through the jungle's perils. "Fuck is wrong with you? No helmet, crap gun on your back. I thought you said pack light."

"Jessie," Zaeed corrected instantly, reaching back to where his treasured gun was strapped to his back to tap her stock with one gloved hand. "And I wouldn't leave her behind for anything." No matter how hard it was to breathe, no matter if it meant he had to carry two heavy rifles instead of one to get the job done, Jessie was coming. He'd leave his working gun behind before he left her.

"You named your gun _Jessie_!?" Jack cackled to herself. "You old fruit."

"Girl I once fancied," Zaeed explained, stroking Jessie fondly over one shoulder. The original Jessie – the one even before the mandolin – had been a girl, he knew, but he remembered little about her beyond her name. At the time she'd been of singular importance to him – he remembered being devastated when his father had moved their family down to Africa, putting thousands of miles between them – but her face, what she was like, all that was lost to time now. Small loss, really – no doubt the girl had just settled down for a contemptibly boring, safe life in the EU. Since then _his _Jessie – the mandolin and then the rifle – had taken on lives of their own.

Still, Zaeed often wondered if the woman Jessie was still alive, back on Earth somewhere. She probably was – she would be about his age, and probably without all the scars and cigars that he tried so hard to kill himself with. What would she think if she knew he'd used her namesake to claim so many lives?

Would she be happy to know Vido would be the last victim the gun would take?

It had a poetic justice to it. Killing Vido with a gun that no longer worked was impractical - stupid even - but nonetheless it had to be done. Twenty years ago, Vido had left Zaeed with a hole in his head. And he'd left him with Jessie. That thought had often troubled Zaeed. Why leave the gun? He could have taken her, just in case. Why leave your new worst enemy with a gun unless you were sure he was dead? It was a rare moment of sentimentality for the normally-practical Vido. It was like he knew Zaeed would pull through, like he wanted to leave a memento of it behind. Like he wanted the betrayal to hurt, wanted Zaeed to hunt him.

It was like he _wanted _to die to Jessie.

Zaeed would not disappoint. He hastened his pace through the jungle.

It was a quarter hour later that the smell of gas hit them. The animal trail had all but disappeared, leaving them mired in thick walls of interpenetrating branches. Bultas grew in clumps, their red heads bulging imposingly, waiting for someone to get close enough to ambush.

But they smelled gas, and then smoke, and they knew they were close.

It was sudden when the foliage finally parted to reveal the refinery rising up out of the jungle. Moss-stained gas pipes wide enough to walk through ran above the canopy, held up by greened concrete support towers. Smokestacks belched fire and ash overtop the dozens of steel prefab buildings that had been assembled in their shadow. It was a black and gray island of technology eroding away in a sea of green life.

The facility was old, groaning under encroaching vegetation, its machinery rumbling with disuse. The smell of leaking gas was everywhere - it roiled from poorly-maintained pipes, in spots so thick it was visible, like a shimmering mirror hanging in midair. All the same, Zaeed's trained eyes picked out dozens of firing positions. Murder holes drilled through the catwalk walls, just wide enough to stick a rifle through. Abandoned sniper towers loomed.

"Alright," Shepard whispered, staring at the empty facility from behind a felled tree trunk. "Lots of potential ambush sites. We're going to need to proceed carefully. Jacob, I want you on point. Keep the barriers ready. I'll take the left, Zaeed right, Jack bring up the rear."

"Roger that," Zaeed agreed. They were through the jungle now, and Zaeed was only too happy to let the commander lead the squad. He had better things to do than babysit. The squad scrambled to their positions, guns drawn. Ducking behind a power pylon snaked with vines, Zaeed activated his seldom-used omni-tool with a wave. It gave a quiet ping as he activated the only program he had installed on it and it began scanning for hardsuit signals. Zaeed had had a long and rocky history with technology – computers had never been his strong suit – but even he had been unable to deny the blazing progress that the omni-tool industries pumped out every year. He'd made it a point to buy a cutting edge model every time the edge moved, but it had been forty years and the technological epiphany he'd been holding out for had yet to come.

Still, he'd used the hardsuit scanner to great effect before, and he did so again now, sweeping the tool in the air and ignoring how much he must have looked like a jackass. The omni-tool blatted in the negative – no hardsuits in the area besides their own. Still, Zaeed spent a long moment scanning the looming catwalks the old-fashioned way, just to be sure. His eyes swept the facility for any hint of movement, any potential ambush spot the omni-tool might have missed. Computers were great but nothing compared to using your own goddamn eyes. People that relied on their toys tended to end up dead.

But today, the toys and the eyes agreed. There was nobody there. No welcoming party.

That was good. Vido didn't know they were there yet.

He left the protection of his pylon and turned to head for the entrance.

"Zaeed!"

"They're not here," he growled, not slowing his pace. "And we don't have enough daylight left to tiptoe around." He made for the open gate between two of them support towers, passing beneath one of the sniper's nests.

"You're going to get yourself killed!"

Zaeed shook his head. No goddamn way. His heart was racing in his chest. Twenty years he'd waited for this day, and now he was here. Somewhere in the facility his old partner was hiding out, unaware of the coming danger. It felt like every moment for two decades - every moment of his life - had been leading up to this moment, and now that he was within arm's reach Jessie was slavering for the kill. There was no time for discretion. It was time for his revenge.

He kept walking, hand resting on Jessie's stock.

There was a long pause, but eventually, when no return fire came, he heard the footsteps of his companions joining him. They walked in silence for several long minutes, making their way amongst the feet of the towers, checking each walkway as they went. The rumble of machines was a constant thunder in front of the hum of the jungle, but otherwise there was no sign of life at all, and in time even Shepard seemed to relax a little.

"Does _Jessie_ even fire?" Jack asked as they were passing a trio of enormous shipping containers, still unopened.

_She might_, Zaeed thought. Jessie had always had a mind of her own – she had a tendency to fire when she wanted, and not when she didn't. She hadn't fired in years, but maybe for Vido the old girl would still have one in her. "No," he admitted sadly. "But there's more than one way to kill a man with a gun." He caught Jack's eye and mimed swinging a bat, a vicious grin on his face.

Jack grinned back.

From behind, Shepard called. "If we can, we're taking him alive."

Zaeed rolled his eyes, turning to look at the commander. Unlike he and Jack, Shepard and Jacob were keeping to cover, darting from shadow to shadow, ducking behind abandoned machines and concrete support struts. They looked like fools. "Oh please..." Zaeed growled. "I've met a lot of bad people in my life, Shepard, and not one of them deserves what I've got in mind more than Vido. If I had-"

He stopped mid-sentence.

There was a sound.

"Go go go!"

As quick as a flash, Zaeed had swung himself behind the nearest cover, eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

Taylor saw it first. "Catwalk, ten o'clock!" he barked.

The refinery lit up with gunfire.

The merc on the catwalk didn't last long. The thin steel railing he had ducked behind was no match for the combined fire of Shepard and Zaeed's assault rifles, and in seconds his shields had shorted and he was sent tumbling from his vantage. His body landed in an armored heap with a _whump _that echoed across the battlefield.

But then there were more. The sounds of gunfire were quickly joined by the great, booming wail of an alarm klaxon so loud it shook the rust from some of the pipes overhead. Blue-and-white clad men came streaming from every direction, shouting and firing.

"Die!" Zaeed snarled, laughing as he felt his rifle heating up in his hands. He sent a stream of bullets pelting up at one of the upper story exits, catching a half dozen men unaware as they stumbled out onto the catwalk only to die in a hail of fire. "Die you sons a bitches!" Somewhere behind him, Shepard was calling out targets, and the sound of Jack's biotics made the hairs stand up on the back of Zaeed's neck, but he took no notice. All he felt was the kick of his gun, all he saw was the death of Vido's pathetic bodyguards, his former brothers. He roared with rage, watching his shots trace across the steel plating of a pressure silo, through the chests of two poorly-positioned Suns, then a decrepit pipe, and finally into another Sun's neck. "Burn and die!" he roared, his mind red-hot, full of memories.

The Suns were many – Vido had clearly brought no shortage of manpower to protect him – but the years since Zaeed had left had not been kind to the Suns' combat abilities. They'd turned from an elite squad into a mass-manufactured mercenary business that sacrificed quality for quantity, and it showed. The mercs were disorganized and Shepard's squad held their ground. Where the Suns were haphazard and took too long to find cover, Shepard's squad was quick and merciless in gunning them down. Where the Suns wasted time trying to pick off Jacob through his formidable barriers, Shepard could call out priority targets for his squad to polish off with frightening efficiency. The commander shouted each move over the cacophony, directing the squad's fire at each group of mercs in turn. None of them lasted long.

The last merc died as the catwalk he was standing on was yanked out from under him in a torrent of blue energy. He screamed as he collapsed in on himself, crushed like an empty can, until his voice shorted out with a sickening squelch. The catwalk came down, bringing half of a support tower with it in a great rumbling avalanche. Cables snapped and the klaxon stuttered and died.

Silence returned.

"Yeah, don't be a pussy, Shepard," Jack said, emerging from her cover behind a forklift. She wiped her sweaty hands on her pants as if nothing had happened. "I've heard of this Vido asshole. He's no fuckin' innocent."

"He'd arguably earned this before we left Earth," Zaeed agreed, tapping Jessie's stock over his shoulder. He turned in a circle, peering through his gun sight at the guard towers they'd left behind them, checking for any hidden snipers. He saw nothing. "But then there was Elysium and Sirona, that massacre on Bonfa, Caleston."

"And the Suns ain't exactly sweethearts on Omega," Jack offered.

Zaeed lowered his weapon, satisfied. He continued his list. "Vido botched a mission on Cenderes, probably killed hundreds with radiation." He tapped his boot in the oily soil. "Even right here on Zorya, quite a few deaths on his hands." More accurately, they were deaths on _Zaeed's _hands that Vido had ordered, back when they were cleaning out any local leaders who thought to oppose the Blue Suns' ever-growing influence on the planet, but Zaeed didn't bother bringing that up.

Shepard grimaced, his discomfort obvious.

"We fought him back when I was with the corsairs," Jacob admitted, looking apologetic. "Ruyii and Solut Four. Lost good men."

"Cheerleader Junior is right, Shepard," Jack said. "You don't _have _to fuck up everybody's revenge plots." Jacob tossed her an angry glare, but she ignored it.

"See?" Zaeed said. As they continued their way towards the center of the facility, a shift of movement up near the refinery's loading docks caught his eye, and he lifted his scope for a better view. "Even Taylor agrees, Shepard," he said, squinting through the sights. He saw it again – a fleeting flash of mud-stained blue-and-white up ahead as a man ducked behind cover just a little too late. He smiled grimly. "Vido's gotto go."

"All the same," Shepard insisted. "It'll be worth it to you in the long run to try to take him alive. That's the plan."

Zaeed laughed at that, still scanning the path ahead. Whoever he'd seen had bunkered down. They knew they'd been spotted - they were sitting still, hoping he'd lose track.

He lowered his gun, but held up a hand to signal the squad to stop. He gestured up towards the hidden mercenary, favoring Shepard with an amused grin.

"You're a good man, Shepard," he said, fishing in his pockets, "but I'm way too old for the kind of peace you think I need." It was funny. Zaeed had met Shepard's type before. Shepard liked to be a shepherd, even to men old enough to be his father. Zaeed's fingers finally found one of his incendiary grenades, and he busied himself priming it, pulling the catalyst tab and setting the pin lock as he slid it into the rail on his rifle.

"It'll be worth it, Zaeed," Shepard insisted.

Zaeed shook his head as the grenade initialized and gave a beep. "We'll see what Jessie has to say about that. She might end up beating the bastard's goddamn face in before you can stop her." He raised his gun again and took aim at the low concrete wall he'd seen the man duck behind again.

Jack snickered. "I suddenly like Jessie."

"Course you do," Zaeed agreed, squinting as he lined up his shot. He fired, and knew at once his aim was true.

The grenade traced a graceful arc through the air and exploded directly over the concrete hidey-hole in a gout of white flame. Amidst the flash of the fire a dark figure screamed in agony and leapt for safety, but it was far too late. The incendiary fuel burned quickly, and the man had hardly stumbled a few steps before he collapsed and was still. His body came to rest in the middle of the workyard, trailing smoke.

Zaeed grinned at the smoldering body. Hell of a shot. He turned to regard the biotic, listening to the crackling inferno behind him. "What's not to like?" he asked, and then he laughed harder and more genuinely than he had in a long time.

Jack just shook her head, brows screwed up in confusion. "What the fuck is wrong with you today, Old Man?"

Zaeed sighed contentedly and headed for the entrance. "I'm just having a goddamn good day."

* * *

_1 hour later..._

___–_

Zaeed's day had taken a turn for the worse.

Around him, the facility was exploding. The pipe he'd burst had ruptured spectacularly, so loud his ears were still ringing, so hot his exposed face still stung. The explosion had nearly knocked Vido's balcony from the wall - it hung, now, from one mangled corner strut, still glowing red hot.

But the damage was not done. The whole facility had begun to rumble with aftershocks as the fire spread through the pipes or caught onto leaks. Zaeed could already feel the floor starting to tilt, bending at a great crack that had snaked its way across the foundations.

The fire roared.

And over it, Shepard was shouting. "We're going!" he bellowed, gesturing wildly to the access pathway to their left. "Jacob, take point! Jack, get that door open!"

Zaeed almost hit him. "Are you goddamn kidding me?" he roared, grabbing the commander by his armored collar. He gestured up to the scorched balcony door. "Vido went that way!"

Shepard ignored him, tearing his grip away with a strike to the wrist. "We're _going_, Zaeed!" he shouted. "Those people need help."

"Those people can go jump off a-"

"We're going," Shepard repeated. "Do what you want." He turned to follow Jacob, vaulting over a fallen beam to the corridor down below.

Zaeed watched him go. "You..." His mouth hung open as Jack turned to follow the others. "Jack?" he asked, astonished. "You too?"

Jack turned and shrugged. She looked apologetic enough, but all the same jumped down to follow Shepard without a word. The three of them disappeared into the adjacent building, past flames and bursting pipes and great clouds of acrid smoke.

Zaeed watched them go. "You son of a bitch," he growled. "You _GOD-DAMN son of a bitch!" _His shout was lost in the tumult. The facility continued to shake. Another explosion sent shrapnel whizzing through the air so close Zaeed could hear it pass, but he made no move.

He stared up at the burning balcony again, where Vido had stood just seconds before.

Then back to the door where Shepard had gone.

"Goddamnit..."

He jumped the railing and followed, snarling curses under his breath.

* * *

_27 years previously..._

___–_

The Spacer had finally quit struggling.

Fresh blood coated the sandy pit that dominated the middle of the Blue Suns' camp as the Duke continued to press down on his prey. The lion's jaws, still locked around the man's neck, were smeared with gore, strong forelimbs pressed across the man's back as if he might suddenly hop back up after being suffocated.

Zaeed Massani looked on the carnage, idly plucking at Jessie's strings. The mandolin's notes seemed to be swallowed up in the oppressive heat of the blue-white sky. "Duke's in fine form today," he observed.

Stefan Bayard, sitting on an ammo crate across from him, nodded overtop of the pauldron he was trying to bend back into shape. "Oui," he agreed. "He's hungry. Tired of sharing my rations." He stared down at his pet with obvious fondness, grinning. "He's a good kitty."

Zaeed rolled his eyes. The Duke was hardly a 'kitty' anymore. The maneless lion had only been a cub when Stefan had found him in the ruins of the mansion of a warlord whose indiscretions they'd been paid to put an end to, but since then he'd grown twenty fold, with an appetite (and droppings) scaling to match. He was a noisy, irritable animal, prone to biting everybody but Stefan, but all the same he'd become the Suns' unofficial mascot and the men were very fond of him.

Somehow the other two Spacers, waiting their turn in the dirt at the pit's edge did not share that fondness.

"This is torture," one of them moaned, staring down at their dead comrade as the Duke – finally satisfied that he'd won – began to feed, his long tail flitting about contentedly as he dug into the dead man's flank.

Zaeed stared at them. They were a pitiful sight, stripped of their weapons and chained to the front grill of a stolen jeep. They were beaten and bruised, bleeding from a half dozen wounds inflicted in the barfight in the _Kroganshead _the previous morning or by rocks as they'd been dragged into camp. The bigger one – the one with the broken nose who'd held Zaeed at gunpoint – gazed blearily up at them with unfocused eyes, no doubt still concussed from when Vido had hit him with the barstool.

They'd been foolish enough to mention having a spaceship in a place where spaceships were in high demand, and Zaeed couldn't find an iota of pity for them. "Not torture," he grunted, plucking out a few more notes. "Blackmail, maybe." He pointed Jessie's neck down to the bloody mess in the lion pit. "Showin' you we mean business."

"We already told you everything! Marko's camp, and the ship, and the weapons, and _everything!"_

Zaeed chuckled. "Yup," he agreed, amused. As tough as they had acted in the bar when they had him outnumbered, faced with a four hundred pound cat all three of them had proven _very _talkative, and had told them everything they needed to know about where to find the rest of their company and – more importantly – the starship they professed to have. "Key difference being that we don't really care what you have to say."

Stefan grinned. "Don't worry," he told them. "Duke won't need to eat again for… hours, at least."

The two Suns laughed at that – at least until a stitch of pain lanced its way up Zaeed's side and he stopped, hissing. He grit his teeth hard, swallowing the burning sensation in his lungs and trying to hide it from Stefan's notice.

Stefan noticed. "It's probably a broken rib, Zaeed," he said, voice even. He gestured to the mercs with his chin. "These two messed you up more than I think you want to admit. You should let me look at it."

"It's fine," Zaeed hissed, ignoring him. Stefan _was _the closest thing they had to a doctor, having served as a combat medic with the EU before ultimately defecting to join Vido and Zaeed while they were campaigning with the AMNKA merc group in CASAI's northern front in Sudan. Still, Zaeed had had more than enough of his attention after losing his eye. Zaeed hated doctors.

Stefan seemed to intuit his thoughts, and did not press the issue. It was a well-worn enough argument already. "Have you at least been taking your pills?" he asked.

"What are you, my mother?"

Stefan shook his head. "Zaeed… Mr. Santiago went to considerable trouble to obtain those," he chided. "From Mwembe, no less. Do you _want _your infection to return?"

Zaeed did not. He'd already gotten used to the foreign feel of the glass eye, gotten used to aiming and fighting by one eye alone – sometimes he even forgot that he used to have two – but the infection had put him in bed for almost two weeks. It had been torture. He grimaced. "I'll take them," he promised.

"And clean those wounds before they scar," Stefan added.

"Don't push it. Scars give me character." He strummed Jessie a few times for emphasis. Stefan just shook his head.

The two of them sat for a time, watching the Duke eat and listening to the frightened whimpering of the captured men waiting for their turn with the lion. Above them, the Kalihari sun beat down relentlessly, sapping all the life out of the desert below, but they'd long since gotten used to it. Far worse was the boredom – even feeding local thugs to a lion got old after a while. The last few weeks had been punctuated by long periods of waiting, and Zaeed and his men were getting restless waiting for Vido to decide their next move. Their war with Mwembe would be done soon enough – the warlord was a power player, but between Zaeed's ruthlessness and Vido's crafty planning the newly-christened Blue Suns had been whittling him down for months. Now they were biding their time, waiting for Mwembe to overextend himself before they drove the knife in, and had moved their camp eight times in the past fortnight, each time daisy-chaining deeper out into the sands to evade Mwembe's scouts. Occasionally Vido was too engrossed in his work to suffer the interruption of breaking down camp and would send Zaeed's team out to ambush the scouts and string their bodies up for their companions to find.

But other than that, there was little to do. Zaeed kept the men occupied as well as he could with various odd-job forays into the surrounding territory while Vido hid in his tent and worked on their next big step. Even after Sudan had folded (and it had folded rather spectacularly), there was still plenty to do on the southern fronts as CASAI scrambled to consolidate its forces in desperate last-ditch bids to hold off rebel movements. The war was all but lost, the world had stopped caring as its focus moved to expanding into the rest of the galaxy, and Vido had shifted the Blue Suns away from CASAI contacts to other clients. Now they were fighting warlords and other defected private armies in the political maelstrom that CASAI's collapse was leaving behind, dozens of smaller wars scattering off as flotsam off of the main conflict.

"Did I miss it?"

Zaeed and Stefan looked to see Dungy – the Suns' youngest member - lope up, squinting in the afternoon sun with his sniper rifle slung over one shoulder. The gurshki letters tattooed down his left forearm gleamed, spelling out the krogan word for 'communal dungpile' – the Suns had convinced him to get the tattoo with the claim that the symbols meant 'unstoppable warrior' as punishment for never bothering to read the 'How To Get Along With Your New Krogan Allies' pamphlets CASAI had been dropping all year. To Dungy's credit, when they'd told him the truth he'd accepted the lesson with dignity and had worn the tattoo proudly – and more importantly, had done his damn homework – ever since.

"Two more to go," Zaeed promised, nodding towards the two prisoners.

Dungpile – who'd gone by Charles Thorngren before he'd been tricked into his unfortunate nickname – bent to peer down into the bloody smear in the lion pit. "Nice," he said, grinning. Dung was a young man – couldn't have been yet twenty, by Zaeed's estimation – with a boy's laziness but a grizzled veteran's tolerance for violence. Nothing seemed to ruffle him in the least. Not as dependable or loyal as Stefan – he'd quit AMNKA to follow Vido for the cost of a night of drinking – but he was a crack shot with his rifle, capable of putting a bullet between a man's eyes from a thousand meters. "This guy barely tried."

"Show some respect, you little shit," one of the prisoners snapped. "That was our friend."

"Was," Dungpile repeated, smirking. He met Zaeed's eye and gestured back to Vido's tent. "Vido wants you, Massani. Job for you, he said."

"Finally got a job for us, eh?" Zaeed asked. It was about time.

Dungpile shook his head. "Just you, I think."

Zaeed's brows rose in surprise. A solo job? That was unusual. All the same, he nodded and rose from his seat, stopping to put Jessie back in her case, reverently loosening the strings and padding the instrument's back with silk rags before latching it up and sliding it into his tent. He cracked his neck and followed Dungpile to the northern end of camp, where Vido's tent stood in the shade of a withered camel thorn tree.

Inside the tent was dark but for the glow of an extranet console and pleasantly cool, its thick canvas blocking out the withering sunlight better than the cheap polymer tents the rest of them had. As usual, Vido was hard at work, his reading glasses on his nose as he worked his way through a pile of datapads that came up to his knee. Vido generally left the day-to-day operations of their company to Zaeed, while he came up with the longer term objectives, and Zaeed did not begrudge him the task. As many hours as Zaeed had spent marching through the deserts or killing rival mercs, Vido had read. He'd read about jobs, he'd read about current events. Poured through material from offworld, reports on human colony progress.

Recently Vido's efforts had been dominated by dreams of space travel. From the very beginning – back when they'd first left CASAI for AMNKA – he'd insisted it was their ultimate direction, but recently it was all he seemed to speak of. A few weeks previously he'd started calling them the Blue Suns and sent them scrambling all across the continent for any lead to a spaceship. Unfortunately, Vido wasn't the only one hoping to get offworld, and once the Alliance had pressganged most of the world's spaceworthy vessels into assisting colonization efforts, finding a private ship was no easy task – the Spacers they'd captured that morning were the closest they'd come so far. Still, when Vido said they needed to get to space, no one argued. No one had challenged him on their outfit's new name, nor exactly _why _they needed to leave the planet when there was so much work to do on Earth, but it didn't matter. Vido had told them the alien worlds were paved with gold and opportunities, just waiting for humanity to show them how a real mercenary company did it. They'd be rich men, he had claimed, neck deep in money and power and alien women and anything they wanted.

Zaeed knew Vido well enough to know he had a more specific plan than that in mind, but he'd never pressed for it. Vido would tell him when he was ready.

Vido looked up from his reading when Zaeed and Dung parted the tent flaps and stepped inside. "Zaeed. Come in," he said, gesturing. "Anything else from the Spacers?"

"Whole lot of bitching," Zaeed reported, standing by the door. "Nothing more of use."

Vido '_hrmed' _to himself, eyes back on one of his datapads. "Looks like what we got was right on the money, though," he said. "Marko Agapov is a merc from Russia. Has connections with shipwrights back home. He might actually have the ship they mentioned."

"Want me to go get it?" Zaeed asked. The Spacers had given them everything he needed to know – Marko's camp was a hundred clicks to the south, just outside of Aroab. Zaeed was confident with a proper surprise attack it would be a simple matter to take it. "I can have a team down there by midnight."

"Not yet," Vido said. "Something else I want you to deal with."

Zaeed's brow rose in surprise. "And give Marko the chance to fly off with his tail between his legs?"

Vido grinned. "Not likely," he said. "I've already sent out a few whispers on the networks. Seems our new Spacer friends are looking to defect, and they've got a ship to sell to the highest bidder willing to take out Marko for them." He smiled wickedly at his own work. "Marko will hear about it before long."

"He won't be happy," Zaeed finished, realization dawning. Vido was an evil bastard, but he was a _clever _evil bastard. A born manipulator. It was sometimes a wonder to behold him at work.

"He'll be pissed," Vido agreed. "Way too pissed to leave without getting revenge on his wayward men. It'll be a suitable distraction, at least, until we're ready to make our move."

Zaeed nodded. "Alright. Then what's the job?"

Vido pointed to Dungpile. "Dungy here found a pamphlet scouting the west ridge."

"Finally started reading them then?" Zaeed asked, amused. Dungpile nodded sheepishly and Vido laughed.

"It says there's going to be an Alliance humanitarian setup up in Walvis Bay," Vido continued after a moment. "They're going to pass out food and medical supplies to the civvies displaced by all the fighting."

Zaeed grimaced. Alliance in the area was bad news, no doubt about it. The Alliance had been growing in power by leaps and bounds since the end of the First Contact War with the skullfaces. In Zaeed's youth, the multi-national organizations had contributed resources to the Alliance's headquarters in Havana, but no one had known yet what exactly the Alliance was for. Fears of tyrannical global governments made the world wary, and each MNO had been careful to maintain its own army at least as big as the Alliance's, and to contribute only the bare minimum to remain a member state. Now everything had changed – now there were aliens to worry about, and the MNO's had all but tripped overthemselves to give resources to the Alliance in exchange for help securing offworld assets. Humanity had to present a unified face now, and for better or worse the Alliance was that face.

But that didn't mean they had to go sticking their noses into other peoples' business, as far as Zaeed was concerned.

"It's dressed up as a relief effort mostly," Vido said, nodding darkly, "but there will be recruiters there." That was no surprise. The Alliance was expanding like mad, spreading into colony after colony as fast as they could, and they were desperate for manpower to populate all their new worlds. "I want you to go talk to them. Pretend you're tired of the merc life, pretend you're considering joining their grand legion." He rolled his eyes. "Tell them you want to do colony security – they're always trying to find people stupid enough to volunteer for that. See what you can learn about them."

"About…"

"Anything," Vido said. "Anything at all. What progress they've made. Where they're moving. What colonies they're investing the hardest in. Which ones are safest. Anything at all."

Zaeed grimaced. A fact-finding mission then. Hardly his cup of tea. Still, Vido was the boss for a reason. "You got it," he said, nodding. He gestured over his shoulder to the middle of the camp. "Let me just toss those two bastards to the lion and I'll head out."

Vido stiffened, and Zaeed knew instantly something was wrong. His eyes narrowed.

Vido faced Dungpile. "Leave us," he ordered. Dungpile gave a curt nod and slipped out of the tent without a word, leaving the two friends alone. Vido finally stood, setting his datapad aside. He looked hesitant. "I… planned to let them join us," he admitted.

Zaeed's brows rose. "Those two?" he asked, surprised. "Really?"

Vido held up a hand defensively. "I know, I know. But the Alliance isn't the only one that needs manpower. We're down to twenty men. A ship of any size is going to need enough men to crew it. We're going to need more logistics personnel, more soldiers, more everything. We need to be an all-inclusive mercenary group," he insisted. "At least until we get established offworld."

"No way," Zaeed grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. "There is _no way _I can work with them."

"The turians – the skull faces – keep a log of all the relevant merc groups on Palaven," Vido said, ignoring him. "Getting on their list is like getting to the big leagues. The galaxy only starts paying attention to you when the skullfaces say you're a real outfit." He stared at Zaeed. "And you need a _thousand _members to even be considered. We have _twenty._"

"Twenty men who've all proven themselves a thousand times over," Zaeed protested. "Twenty men who'll follow my commands. Twenty men I trust. We can't be taking in strays." He leaned down on Vido's terminal, staring at his partner with as much severity as he could muster. "You can't lead men who don't trust you."

Vido scoffed. "Nonsense. I do it all the time."

That was true. "Fair enough," Zaeed allowed. "But battle is different. All our boys have proven themselves. Dungy? Stefan? Coati? They do their jobs. They'll watch my back. Those men out there," he gestured outside again, "We just turned their buddy into catfood. They'll be waiting for a chance to betray us. You tell me what you want done with them and I'll do it, but I don't want someone who hates me following me into battle. Shorin' up the numbers isn't worth getting stabbed in the back."

Vido was quiet, thinking. At length he spoke. "You aren't just mad because they beat you up," he said, grinning.

"I coulda taken 'em," Zaeed insisted, not looking away. Jokes aside, he was not inclined to compromise on this point. They'd been very clear when they'd started their association – Vido was in charge of the money and Zaeed was in charge of the men.

Vido sighed. "Alright, Zaeed," he said finally. "I disagree, but if you're right it's your back they'd be stabbing." He returned to his seat. "Kill them."

Zaeed let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Vido."

"But just take them out and shoot them, though," Vido added. "I'm sick of the lion's messes."

Zaeed chuckled. "Can do," he said, and turned to leave. He had to get moving if he was to reach Walvis Bay before nightfall. As he parted the tent flaps to leave, though, Vido's voice stopped him.

"Zaeed?"

He turned.

Vido's voice was quiet. "You hear about Zeta Reticuli?"

Zaeed took a step back into the tent. "Can't say I have," he admitted. "Star name?"

Vido nodded. "That's right. Blue supergiant star they found on the end of one of the relays back in February. Empty system, unclaimed, just a huge star and a few thousand planetoids made of _solid platinum._ Without qualification the single most valuable mineral deposit ever discovered by mankind, but the star's so bright, any mining equipment sent there is fried in minutes. Alliance called it a lost cause."

Zaeed screwed up his brows, trying to guess Vido's point. "So?"

"So someone figured it out," Vido said. "Some anonymous businessman figured out a thermal shield or something. Proprietary, I don't know how it works. But it let him get established without everything melting." He stared at Zaeed. "Instant billionaire, that bastard," he said. "Overnight he's one of the richest men in the world. In the _galaxy._" Vido fell silent, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Hence the name Blue Suns, huh?"

"Hence Blue Suns," Vido said, voice quiet. "I think it's fitting."

"Memorable," Zaeed agreed.

Vido looked at him again, back to smiling. "Somewhere out there is _our _blue sun, friend. Take that for the inspiration that it is."

* * *

_Presently..._

___–_

Zaeed was a big man – of the humans aboard the _Normandy, _only Taylor matched him, and Taylor didn't wear forty-five kilos of heavy armor on top – but he might as well have been weightless when the krogan tossed him into his room. He hit the ground hard as the door slid shut with a _boom, _bathing him in darkness.

His head was solid with pain so thick memories seemed to lumber through his mind without any particular conviction. The last hour had been a fuzzy whirl. There was something about attacking Shepard. Then something about being reminded just how protective Jack had become of the Commander lately. Taylor's gauntlet had caught and torn a nasty gash over his left eyebrow, and now his face and neck were coated in a sheet of crusted blood that would have blinded him if his good eye wasn't already swollen shut, buried in seeping flesh that still prickled like fire from Zorya's pollen. Jack's attack had been even worse, pushing the air out of him so hard for a moment he'd thought he'd popped a lung. Now his whole body felt like one big bruise of ruptured capillaries.

Zaeed had not been on the receiving end of an asskicking like that in a long, long time. His body felt every one of his sixty years. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to _think_.

But one thought made it through the haze undimmed.

_Vido had gotten away._

Zaeed lurched to his feet. His blood seemed to pound in his ears like gunfire and he stumbled, steadying himself against the table as his twisted ankle threatened to collapse out from under him. The effort of opening his smashed eye almost winded him, but red hot fury parted the pain like it wasn't even there.

_Vido had gotten away._

Zaeed stared furiously at his surroundings. He was in his room on the _Normandy. _It was dark – which was unusual enough – but all the same he could make out the wreckage that was left of his personal effects. His room had been ransacked, every one of his crates, his mementos, his cigars and weapons and ammo packed up and removed until only the cot in the corner betrayed that anyone lived in the room at all. He'd been cleaned out.

It wasn't hard to guess why. Shepard must have called ahead from the Kodiak during their return trip, must have told his crew to sweep the room for anything Zaeed might use to make trouble. One glance was enough to tell they'd been thorough, too. His rifles, spare ammo, grenades, shield capacitors – everything – had been taken. Even the throwing knives had been yanked out of the wall.

"Jesus H Christopher Robin in a Can," Zaeed swore to the empty room, grimacing at the pain in his side. Behind him, Jessie was a reassuring weight. He fingered her stock on reflex, staring at the damage. "Goddamn thieves, Jessie. I'm going to kill 'em. I'm going to bloody _kill _'em."

But first things first.

He hobbled over to the bulkhead and, steadying himself against the garbage compactor, ran a hand along the hidden ledge behind it. The effort sent a stitch of pain lancing up his side, but all the same Zaeed breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers met the thick fabric of the emergency medkit – the thieves hadn't found it. Zaeed fished it out, pulled out a fresh bottle of bourbon, tore off the top, and drank deeply, desperately, violently, as if he could drown his anger if he finished the bottle fast enough. The booze burned on its way down, and Zaeed felt the shaky strength in his legs giving out. Cradling the bottle in one hand, Zaeed eased himself to the floor under the trash compactor and took another swig.

The quiet pressed in over the just-audible hum of the _Normandy's _engines, and all that was left was him, Jessie, and the drink.

Thank fucking God he'd been prepared.

_Vido had gotten away._

Whether it was the booze or the exhaustion or the concussion Jack had given him back down on the planet, Zaeed's rage seemed to crystallize now. His heart rate slowed. Despite the storm in his head, a quiet calm filled Zaeed's limbs, interrupted only when he shifted to pull Jessie out of her holster and leaned back farther into the corner, listening to the pops of his vertebrae as they settled like an old rusty ship from back when 'ship' still meant water. He set Jessie next to him, hand resting on the familiar coolness of her barrel as he shot back another swallow of bourbon.

He stared balefully at the door – it was locked, no doubt, and with an angry krogan or turian (or even both) waiting outside for any excuse to toss him out the airlock. He couldn't help but snarl at the darkness. It was insulting. They were caging him up like the goddamn krogan. Like he was a bloody animal. Like he could be caged.

Like he hadn't prepared for this sort of thing.

"Goddamn children," he muttered.

_Vido had gotten away._

He wondered if the laughter he was hearing was part of the concussion or just the galaxy taunting him, but he knew it was Vido's laugh. _Vido had gotten away. _It strained belief, even for him who should know better. Hadn't Zaeed seen enough of the galaxy to know this was the only way his showdown with Vido would resolve? People didn't get justice – or even revenge – unless they were very, very lucky. The galaxy loved bad guys like Vido to get away.

But the galaxy hadn't let Vido get away. Shepard had.

_Vido had gotten away. And Shepard had let it happen._

That was all there was to it. Shepard had screwed him, screwed all his careful plans to catch Vido. Ruined all the intel he'd so painstakingly gathered. Brought him down to Zorya to get his hopes up and then wasted his time saving a few goddamn miners. Gave Vido the window he needed to escape for another twenty years. Refused to call in the _Normandy _to shoot the fucker's bloody gunship out of the sky, or just bomb every Sun base in a hundred mile radius. Every step of the way, Shepard had screwed him.

And Zaeed had been so _close! _The image of Vido's gunship retreating behind the jungle canopies replayed over and over in his head like a cruel joke. It was almost unreal.

_Vido had gotten away. And Shepard had let it happen._

The hate was almost paralyzing.

Shepard had taken from him the one thing he really wanted. The _one _thing. And he suffered no delusions – he would never see Vido again. It had taken twenty years for the bastard to let his guard down enough for Zaeed to find him the first time. If Vido was good at one thing, it was hiding while his minions took the risks. He would make sure Zaeed never got another shot at him. Vido would die an old man, pampered and happy in some hidden mansion somewhere, and Zaeed and Jessie would go to their graves with nothing.

Vido was out of his reach forever.

But the one who'd let him go was not a hundred feet away.

Something had to be done.

His contract had been violated like he was some two-bit merc and not Zaeed _Goddamn _Massani. Like he was some stooge to be discarded or dismissed without a second thought. It was disrespectful. It was… it was bloody unprofessional, was what it was. Bounty hunting was a dirty business, outlaws buying outlaws to kill other outlaws. Things tended to get messy. Professionalism was the only defense they had – you didn't have to agree with a man's politics to do business, but you damn well had to treat him with _respect._

Especially if he was _Zaeed Goddamn Massani._

For contract violations on a big job – and this _Normandy _mission was one of the biggest he'd ever taken – Zaeed would normally shout a bunch, maybe shoot a few expensive toys or personnel for emphasis, and then double his fee and let it be water under the bridge. But the recent fallout between Shepard and Cerberus had left Zaeed wary of where he stood with Cerberus of late. The Illusive Man had only paid him a tenth of his fee up front – non-negotiable, he'd insisted – and with the way things were going the other ninety percent was seeming less and less likely with each passing day. Zaeed had held onto some hope after Miranda rejoined them, but she'd returned a different woman, and when he'd asked she'd calmly informed him she hadn't been in contact with the Illusive Man in days. The money was looking bad. Doubling his fee wasn't going to cut it.

But this wasn't about money anyway. It was about revenge. If a small-time client had done to Zaeed what Shepard had done, Zaeed would have killed them down to a man and made sure everybody knew why. _Nobody _reneged on him.

Shepard had let things get unprofessional. And when you let things get unprofessional…

Bad things happened.

Shepard had to pay.

Shepard had to _die._

Zaeed's side gave a painful throb as if to remind him that he'd already attacked the commander once today. He'd let his fury get the better of him and attacked stupidly. That was what had gotten him in this situation in the first place. As soon as Vido's gunship had winked out of view, he'd turned twenty years of fury on the next nearest target, who had just happened to be Shepard. He'd hardly landed a blow before Jack and Jacob had been on him, smashing him back into the iron grating so hard he'd barely avoided dashing his unprotected brains out.

And now he was on Shepard's ship, surrounded by Shepard's allies. Now he was wounded and half-drunk and unarmed. They'd taken his guns, his knives, probably even found his hidden grenade belt.

But he was Zaeed Goddamn Massani. He'd faced worse odds before, and he'd kicked them in the teeth. Shepard had no idea who he was messing with.

They'd taken his guns, but he wasn't helpless. After they'd beaten him halfway unconscious Jack and Jacob had searched him for hidden weapons, and had relieved him of half a dozen knives, his inferno grenades, a holdout pistol, and even a miniature demo-charge. But they'd grossly underestimated just how many weapons Zaeed preferred to carry on his person. Even delirious, blinded by the blood in his eye, Zaeed knew they'd missed at least three grenades he kept in his pauldron, along with a short razor under his stomach plating and another in the lining of his left sleeve.

Now, if he flexed his left hand, he could just feel the razor's handle pressing up against his wrist.

He imagined how it would feel driving into the commander's neck. He took another deep drink.

He could take Shepard. Shepard was half his age and no pushover, but he was a man who'd learned to fight with four hundred thousand credits of armor and shields and computer shit cradling his every action. Killing with a high-performance gun and a targeting computer was one thing – and Shepard was very good at it – but killing with your bare hands? Bashing another man's brains in with whatever you had in reach, so close you could watch the warmth leave their eyes? That wasn't Shepard's game.

But Zaeed had done it more times than he cared to remember. He'd done it with knives, he'd done it with broken bottles. He'd killed at least a half dozen men with Jessie's stock alone. He'd even done it bare-knuckled.

Zaeed outweighed Shepard by thirty pounds and outwisdomed him by thirty years. If he couldn't take a bottlefed Alliance brat in a fistfight he deserved whatever he got.

He'd have his chance. One proper thrust of the blade could do it, cyborg or not. Shepard would die in a pool of blood at Zaeed's feet. Zaeed had no delusions – he would not have time to relish his victory. He'd join Shepard in death, of course, as soon as the AI told the ship what had transpired. But it would be too late for Shepard. Vido was gone forever, but Zaeed would at least get some measure of revenge.

And Shepard would walk right in, unarmed, and let it happen.

Zaeed shook his head and felt the hidden razor again. It was almost too easy. "He'll come for us soon, Jessie," he said. "Come to talk sense into us." He took another long drink.

Shepard would want to talk about Zorya. He would want to mend bridges. He would believe Zaeed could forgive him, and it would cost him his life.

_Vido had gotten away. And Shepard had let it happen. And Shepard would pay._

_–_

By the time Shepard made his reappearance, Zaeed had polished off the whole medkit, slept for a spell, then finished another bottle he fished out from the wreckage of one of his supply crates. The alcohol mixed with the simmering anger in a way that didn't quite dilute it, but blurred it until he was lashing out at any random thing he could think of.

And so he was more than ready with a few curses for the room lights when they finally bloomed back to life, so bright they burnt his eyes. He blinked blearily, his head shaking with the sound of heavy footfalls, and forced his eyes open long enough to see Shepard and the krogan staring down at him.

Shepard was out of armor, back in his casuals, freshly cleaned. The punch Zaeed had managed to land on him before Jack and Jacob had taken him down was purpling around the edges of a medigel patch.

The commander did not look amused.

Grunt, plodding in behind him, looked even less so – especially when his gaze landed on the gun in Zaeed's hand. "Move!" Grunt bellowed at a volume that would set a man's head to ringing even if he _wasn't _hungover. The krogan's blue eyes surged in alarm as he thundered forward to plant himself in between Zaeed and Shepard, his mountainous bulk shielding the commander completely from view.

"He's armed," Grunt growled, teeth bared as he leveled his Claymore down at Zaeed.

Zaeed grimaced at the pain in his head. He didn't bother to lift Jessie in defiance.

From somewhere behind Grunt, Shepard spoke. "Stand down, Grunt. It's safe. That gun doesn't fire."

Grunt's eyes narrowed suspiciously at Zaeed for a moment, as if he'd somehow tricked Shepard into giving the order, but after a ponderous moment he relented and stepped aside, gun still pointedly trained on Zaeed's forehead. "That's Jessie," Shepard said by way of explanation. "Just a memento." Shepard ignored Grunt's dismissive snort, favoring Zaeed with a look that screamed 'see? I _do _listen.'

Zaeed tossed him a half-drunken 'if you did you'd remember Jessie doesn't need to fire to kill a man' look in response.

"Wait outside, Grunt," Shepard ordered.

"I don't-"

"Outside, Grunt," Shepard repeated. "Send the doctor in."

After a long reluctance the krogan obeyed with a final warning growl that made Zaeed's head reel. He turned to plod out the door, muttering to himself.

Zaeed wince at the sound of the door mechanisms sliding aside to admit Dr. Chakwas. The woman had her medkit (woefully free of bourbon) in hand as she gingerly stepped around the retreating krogan's girth. She did not look at Zaeed, her face drawn in a clinical neutrality that didn't quite hide her disgust at being there. If possible, she looked even less amused than Grunt. She said nothing, standing to one side behind Shepard – as far away from Zaeed as she could get.

Eyes still locked with Zaeed's, Shepard pointed to the table. "Up," He ordered.

Zaeed didn't bother protesting. Scattering the nest of discarded bottles he'd made for himself, he hobbled back up to his feet, both hands holding onto the table for purchase. His head whirled at the sudden change in equilibrium, his legs felt like jelly, and he very nearly fell back onto his ass.

Neither Shepard nor Chakwas made any move to help him.

With some effort, Zaeed managed to drag himself up onto the table. It was only then that Chakwas made a move, stepping forward to set her medbag on the table next to him. "Shirt off," she commanded in clipped tones, rummaging through her kit. Behind her, Shepard watched in silence.

Zaeed grunted and obeyed. He felt like he'd halfway fossilized to the floor, his joints and muscles were so stiff and painful. With some effort, he managed to detach the clips that held his pauldron on. He let it drop to the floor with a clatter. The armor on his right arm was next, followed by the chestpiece and belly plates. He was already struggling to remove his armormesh hauberk when his booze-addled mind finally caught up and he paused.

He was supposed to kill Shepard. With the razor. The razor that was hidden in his hauberk.

He looked up, wondering if Shepard or the doctor had noticed his hesitation, but they looked to think it was just soreness making him slow (which, to be fair, was not a hard ruse to believe, considering how Zaeed's muscles felt like cottony agony.) They stood by impassively, watching him struggle.

Zaeed swallowed heavily. He could do it now. Shepard was not a meter away. It would be a simple matter to retrieve the blade while he was pretending to fumble with his shirt, and a simpler matter still to jam it into Shepard's neck and watch him die like Vido should have. It'd only take a few seconds. Zaeed felt the razor's weight pressing into his forearm, tempting him. He wasn't likely to get a better chance.

But then Chakwas took pity on him and stepped forward to help him pull the heavy hauberk and its hidden weapon over his head, and Zaeed felt himself freeze at her touch. Zaeed did not delude himself – he knew he never had any real chance with the woman, and it was probably just the fact that she was the only one on the _Normandy _his age that had made her image linger for him. Crushes were for children. But all the same he could not deny that he carried some flicker of affection, and the new disgust he could see in her eyes hurt. No doubt she hated him now, and she'd hate him even more once he'd done the deed and killed her beloved commander. He could at least do her the favor of not doing it in front of her.

He let her pull his undershirt off, revealing the myriad of scars that criss-crossed his chest, back, and arms. Gunshot wounds and slashes, pockmarks from shrapnel and clean scalpel scars from a half dozen reconstructive surgeries, and most impressively the enormous scars that covered his left arm like a sleeve and made it so awkwardly stiff that he eschewed armor plates rather than suffer any more loss of mobility.

When his undershirt had been tossed in a heap on the floor to join the rest of his armor, the doctor got to work. She probed none-too-gently at Zaeed's bruised torso, gloved fingers feeling for broken ribs or signs of organ swelling. She listened to his heart and lungs, stared down his throat, shined a painfully bright flashlight into his good eye. She worked in silence, speaking only when she had Zaeed read a set of numbers off of a little datapad.

And she did it all with a look of such contempt on her face. Like he wasn't worth doctoring. At first it made Zaeed burn with shame – he supposed all matronly women wielded shame like a weapon and a doctor like Chakwas probably was a master at it – but as the minutes passed and she still looked at him like he was scum that shame gave way to a familiar anger.

She was dressing the wound over his eye when Zaeed had finally had enough, and batted her hands away from his face. "Enough," he snarled. "Taylor and Jack couldn't beat up a ten year old. Why don't you do something useful and get me headmeds for a hangover?" He indicated his pounding head with a gnarled hand.

Chakwas' pale eyes narrowed in obvious disgust, but she did not answer him. "He's fine, Commander," she said, thrusting her stethoscope back into her bag and closing it with a click. "Fit for duty or discharge. Or the airlock."

Shepard thanked her and she left, leaving the two men alone.

Zaeed restrained another grimace at the sound of the door sliding shut behind the doctor and swiveled on the table to meet Shepard's gaze. Neither of them spoke for a long time, just locked eyes. The minutes crawled by.

Zaeed spent them thinking, as clearly as he could through the haze in his head. He was as hungover as he'd been in a long time – hardly an ideal condition for assassinating a trained soldier like Shepard – but he had had a lot of years to amass his alcohol tolerance. Men who drank had to be able to think drunk, and Zaeed had had a lot of practice. His mind leapt from scenario to scenario, gauging the seconds it would take to retrieve his blade, close the distance between him and Shepard, and do the deed. Shepard was unarmored, thankfully, and so it wouldn't have to be a particularly accurate strike, so long as it was deep. Still, as much as Shepard tried to feign relaxation, leaning back with his arms across his chest in the pose he traditionally used when he was prying into his team's business, Zaeed could see the man was on high alert. He would not let Zaeed get the jump on him easily, and if Zaeed wasn't fast enough, or didn't get the blade in deep enough, it would only take the briefest moment for Grunt to come thundering in to the commander's rescue.

Zaeed would have to get close. Lull Shepard into a false sense of security. He'd only get one chance.

With a groan, he slid off the table, ignoring the way the room seemed to whirl around him. "Doctor doesn't like me much anymore, I'm guessing," he said, trying to sound conversational as he reached for his discarded undershirt.

Shepard made no move to stop him, other than to shake his head. "Tell me a story, Zaeed," he said, finally, as if he hadn't heard.

Zaeed looked at him, confused, as he returned to his seat on the table and threaded his arms back into the sleeves of his undershirt.

"Tell me a story about a man who let his personal bullshit get in the way of the mission," Shepard clarified. His face was stony.

Zaeed grimaced at that – then again at the stiffness in his back as he strained to slip the collar over his head. "It wasn't your mission," he protested. "It was mine."

"It was my men and my ship and my _responsibility, _Zaeed," Shepard snapped, and Zaeed just scowled. They fell silent for a moment, then "I'm serious," he insisted. "Tell me what happens."

Zaeed sighed. "It usually goes to shit," he admitted, deciding to play along. As much as it pained him to admit it, Shepard _was _technically right. He'd seen more than a few missions fall apart because people couldn't get their egos under control. But that was _not _what had happened on Zorya.

"Specifically?" Shepard asked.

Zaeed stared at him, looking for explanation, but for once the commander was unreadable. Did he want Zaeed to say all the gritty details? Maybe a bit about how Stotsky had gone out, bleeding out from the stumps where his legs used to be after he misjudged a rival merc's trickery for genuine affection and tried to elope with her. Or about how the _Koraka _had lit up like a firework when its jerkoff of a pilot had dropped it too deep into the brown giant's atmosphere and it exploded. "Mission gets compromised," Zaeed said, deciding on simplicity. "Objectives missed." He fell silent. "People die."

Shepard nodded and said nothing, a satisfied look on his face. Zaeed wanted little more than to punch it off, give him a matching bruise on the other side, but he stayed his hand, reaching for his hauberk and the blade hidden within. Again, Shepard made no move to stop him.

"Vido didn't die," he reminded Shepard, wincing as he pulled the hauberk over his head. "The man we were _supposed _to kill. The bloody goddamn butcher got away to go enslave and kill his merry way. Mission compromised. Thanks to you."

Shepard shook his head. "Thanks to _you_. You forced my hand when you signed the death warrants of a hundred people just to make a big entrance. Did you really think I'd let that go? Was that honestly surprising?"

"No time," Zaeed insisted, adjusting his armored sleeve until he could feel the blade handle pressed back up against his wrist. "Only way in. Vido would have gotten away."

Shepard shrugged. "So be it."

It took all of Zaeed's strength not to draw the blade and lunge right then and there. "NOT SO BE IT!" he roared, left fist balled so tight the stiff scar tissue on the back of his hand stung. "We had a goddamn agreement!" He rounded on Shepard, his soreness evaporating under a plume of anger as he set into the commander. "I told you straightaway, when we first met. What did I tell you? I'd be a goddamn saint, I'd follow orders, I'd be the best damn merc you'd ever seen. So long as when I found Vido I got a goddamn day off to go shoot him in the head." He roared until he was red-faced. "I upheld my end!"

Shepard looked unimpressed. "And I upheld mine. I even gave you a ride. Gave you Jack and Jacob and myself."

"And then you threw it away for me! Gave up Vido for a few fuckin' slaves! You're a goddamn soldier! How can you _possibly _be so naive!?"

"Aside from the obvious, I don't like revenge killing," Shepard said, unconcerned even as Zaeed stood just inches in front of him. "I don't like killing to be personal. Not to me, not to anyone."

Zaeed gaped at Shepard, fury on his face as he worked the blade handle up into his left palm.

Shepard barreled on, oblivious. "Your anger clouded your senses, Zaeed," he said, like he was speaking to a child and not to a seasoned mercenary seconds away from killing him. "Made you stupid. Made you forget your priorities. If you'd wanted Vido dead because he was dangerous, if you hadn't made it personal, you'd never have compromised yourself." He stared at Zaeed with a sanctimonious look on his face, as if he expected Zaeed to drop to his knees at the ephiphany.

The blade pressed into Zaeed's hand. He was in range. He could do it.

But he didn't.

"Here's a story for you, Shepard," Zaeed found himself snarling. "One day your quarian and your doctor and the glass-bones kid grab you and hold you down while the turian _shoots you in thegoddamn head." _He stared at the commander, fury at Shepard and fury at Vido jostling for purchase in his head. "Your best fuckin' friend shoots you in the HEAD over a goddamn disagreement."

Shepard said nothing.

"You'd want to die, Shepard," Zaeed said. His voice quieted as the memory welled up like a reopened wound. Zaeed was a man who could happily spend a whole night reminiscing on past adventures, but what had transpired between him and Vido was a memory he did his best to keep buried. It bubbled to the surface now, though, as fresh and painful as ever. "Christ, Shepard," he said, and he stared down at his feet, winded by the admission. "I wanted to _die. _Never wanted anything half so much." It would have been so much easier if he had. If the shot had killed him.

The room was quiet.

"But I didn't die," he said finally, looking back to Shepard, eyes hard. "I got shot in the head and I lived. And I want to see if that traitor can do the same. You're goddamn right it's _personal_, Shepard. I want _revenge. _ And I don't care how good you act, you are full of _shit _if you think you wouldn't want the same."

Shepard shrugged. "I'd control it," he said. "I wouldn't let it control me."

Zaeed could only stare, mouth agape. He couldn't believe it. The fucking child, the fucking _child! _How could he stand there and say that with a straight face!? How could he not _understand? _He lifted a hand to point at Shepard and tried to shout, but the anger did not come. "You're a goddamn child," he said, shaking his head, "you're…" He trailed off, at a loss for words.

That was it. Shepard _didn't _understand. Zaeed had explained the most important thing in his _life _and Shepard had just stood there and let it wash over him like it was nothing. He didn't get it. He didn't understand betrayal, or revenge, or evil at all.

Shepard _was _a child.

Suddenly all of Zaeed's anger was gone. He felt it ebb away in a wash. Now he only felt very old and tired. He sat on the table, hidden blade forgotten.

Shepard kept talking. "I don't expect you to feel the way I do about killing, but I _do _expect you to be a professional. I expect better from you, Zaeed."

Zaeed stared at his hands.

"I'm going to give you the same choice I gave Cerberus," Shepard continued. "We're heading to Aiea to investigate a shipwreck, but then we'll be heading back to Minuteman Station. You can get off there with no pay." He narrowed his eyes. "Or you can shape up and do your _goddamn _job."

Zaeed frowned. He flexed his hand again, feeling the hidden blade there. "Or I can kill you and blow up your ship," he said, but his voice sounded unconvinced, even to him.

"You can try, Zaeed."

* * *

_21 years previously..._

___–_

Zaeed preferred to measure time in terms of injuries. Medical technology – and the Suns could afford the real stuff now, nothing like the minimum they'd commanded back on Earth – had pushed the limit of what a suitably stubborn man could survive farther and farther, and Zaeed had spent most of his life testing it. Asphyxiation, blood loss, electrocution, practically anything could be fixed so long as you didn't actually die – and there were those who said it was only a matter of time before that barrier was gone too. A broken leg could be good as new in a month, skin grafts took hold in days. Zaeed could take a bullet on Monday and be back in the fight by Wednesday. It had gotten routine.

Two-hundred and eighty-six burns from a red-hot poker would still hurt for a while, though.

Zaeed did not fall when the alien shoved him back into the cell he'd been sharing with Stefan and Dung for the better part of a week (or at least he thought it was about a week - the prison was built deep enough underground that it was hard to tell), but he wanted to. The pain in his arm was intense. The fresh burns all the way up on his shoulder felt like lightning, but not half so bad as where the thoroughness-minded batarians had stuck the glowing poker into the crusted-over burns they'd put on his hand two days ago. Zaeed felt like passing out.

Still, you couldn't let some goddamn four-eyed freak think he'd gotten to you.

Zaeed stayed on his feet, turning to stare defiantly through the cell's slit window until the guard had turned the corner and continued up to the surface, his broad body blotting out the tiny glint of daylight at the end of the slanted corridor that was the prison's surface entrance, far above them. "Yeah, you better run, jackass," Zaeed snarled to himself. The walls – cold, dripping moss on permafrost - swallowed his words.

He took his seat in the slow-moving river of filthy, freezing water that sluiced down the prison's main channel. The cold was mind-numbing, but it felt like relief after the heat of the torture chamber he'd spent the morning in.

Next to him, Dung stirred. "'eed," he mumbled from behind a swollen lip. "You're back."

Zaeed hissed as he settled his burnt arm into the water. The cold stung like knives in his skin, but it was a blessing to know he still had working nerves to feel it. "Course I am," he grunted, carefully dribbling cold mud over his shoulder.

"They torture you again?"

Zaeed sniffed absently, trying to ignore the way his stomach rumbled at the smell of burnt flesh. The batarians had an unusual fixation on his left arm - aside from the injuries he'd suffered when they'd first been captured, they hadn't touched him anywhere else - but on his left arm they'd been _very _thorough. They'd set their hot poker to the back of his hand again and again and again until there was no more skin to be burnt off, and even then they'd just pared back his sleeve and worked their way up. He'd kept count, shouting out each new burn as they added it, and at two-hundred sixty-eight he was blisters from knuckles to shoulder. It'd be a hell of a scar when it finally healed. For now it seeped and stank and riddled him with agony at the slightest breeze. "Nah," he lied, holding very still. "Goddamn pansies."

Dung shook his head but did not disagree. He had gotten much the same treatment, but so far the batarians' burn marks had only barely made their way up Dung's arm to deface the bottom letter or two of his tattoo. The first time the batarians had tossed him back in the cell with only a half dozen wounds Zaeed had worried Dung had talked, but one look at his face proved otherwise - the boy was pale and scared, but he was a Blue Sun, goddamnit. He was made of sterner stuff than that. He'd last a while.

Zaeed grimaced at that thought and turned to look at the cell's last inhabitant. "Hey Stefan, you still with us?" Dung followed his gaze, a troubled look on his mangled face.

Slumped in the far corner, Stefan held his knees and rocked slowly. He didn't answer.

Zaeed's frown deepened. Cradling his burnt arm against his chest, he crawled across the cell as slowly as he could manage. Every bump made his nerves scream, until he slumped to a seat next to the larger man. "Stefan," He said, slapping him on the back with his good hand as if nothing was wrong, "Buddy. You still here?"

Stefan was shaking. The gash he'd taken to the head when the batarians had boarded their ship had long since stopped bleeding, but Zaeed had seen enough injuries to know it wasn't finished doing its damage. Stefan's eyes had had a glazed, unfocused look to them for days. He had hardly said three words since they'd been locked up. And while Zaeed and Dung had had daily visits to the torture forge to get a little more of their left arms hot pokered off, their batarian jailers hadn't so much as glanced at Stefan, like torturing him wasn't worth their trouble.

That wasn't a good sign.

Still, Stefan did seem to still recognize Zaeed. He lifted his head high enough to meet Zaeed's eyes, and misery seemed to roil off of him like a cloud. "Zaeed..." he mumbled, and his voice was thick. He was tearing up.

Zaeed shook his head. "Nope," he said, patting Stefan hard, like he was trying to knock some strength back into him. "No, no, none of that crying shit. Enough, Stefan. You're a Blue Sun. Show some goddamn dignity."

"Can't help it," Stefan sniffed. He rocked a little faster.

Zaeed smacked him again. "We'll get out of here, you dumb son of a bitch," he insisted. "You know Vido'll think of something." Zaeed had spent the ship ride down to whatever shithole corner of batarian space they'd been dragged to drifting in and out of consciousness, but he had been lucid enough while he was being introduced to his cell to see a manacled Vido being dragged deeper into the prison's depths, no doubt to get whatever special torture regimen the batarians reserved for leaders. It was anybody's guess as to how Vido was faring (or, if Zaeed was being honest, if he was even still alive), but nonetheless he was probably their best hope. If anybody could figure out an escape plan, it would be Vido.

"It's not that," Stefan insisted, staring back into his knees. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "It's Duke-y. He hasn't been fed."

Zaeed looked at him.

"He's a good kitty," Stefan observed, nodding to himself. "Poor, poor Duke-y."

Zaeed rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Stefan! He's a four hundred pound lion, not a goddamn teacup chihuahua. Show some goddamn dignity for _him!_"

"He's at the base. He misses me."

"Be thankful he wasn't on the ship, you damn fool," Zaeed said. "The batarians would have made him into a throw rug."

Stefan sobbed harder.

"Jesus Christ," Zaeed muttered again, looking across the cell to trade a worried look with Dung. Stefan was losing it. "Just… Christ." Zaeed rubbed at his face with his uncooked palm. The things he did for this damn group. "Listen, Stefan. The lion is on Caleston. He's fine. He's not hungry. He probably..." he paused, thinking, "he probably ate someone at the base already."

"Vosque, if we're lucky," Dung supplied, his usual grin hardly diminished by the fact that he'd lost three teeth to the batarian slaver who'd tied him up when their ship had been taken.

Zaeed forced himself to smile back. "Exactly," he said, patting Stefan on the back. "Your kitty is probably sleeping off all that meat. Let's worry about us here. And Vi-" He paused mid-sentence.

The slosh of boots echoed down the hallway. Zaeed stared through the bars – he couldn't tell the seven guards apart by their footsteps yet, but if the guard schedule he'd pieced together so far was accurate, either Three-Eyes or Baldspot was due. Baldspot liked to spit on them as he passed by but was otherwise past his prime, no real threat, but Three-eyes had – if fewer eyes – twice the sense of the other guards, and Zaeed preferred not to be overheard by him. Hopefully it would be Baldspot.

One of the guards lurched into view.

It was not Baldspot _or _Three-eyes, and Zaeed's eyes widened a degree as the batarian's bulk filled up the corridor in front of them. This one was Fakebeard, huge and heavy with fur and fat, his shoulders too broad for his little head. He wore a hooded skin coat that smelled like oil and carried one of the harpoon launchers that had killed Strachilde. He was bald from the neck-up but for a quartet of thin, braided locks – no doubt collected from beasts he'd hunted – that hung like wispy beards from silver piercings on his jowls.

Fakebeard stared at them for a long moment, four black eyes glittering in the dim light. That he was the most dangerous of the guards Zaeed was quite sure – and not only because he was the biggest.

Still, he was a goddamn batarian. Zaeed rose to his feet. "I think there's some space left on my elbow, you bloody goddamn jackass," he snarled, displaying the dripping, burnt remains of his arm to the alien.

Fakebeard chuckled, a strange, alien noise, and reached a hand through the window. He shook his voluminous sleeve and three faded green apples rained to the cell floor to _plop _in the pooling water.

Zaeed picked one up from where the current had caught it between two of the cell bars. The apple was heavily bruised – it looked like it had been frozen and thawed – but near as he could tell it was the real deal. A genuine apple from Earth or one of the luckier colonies. His stomach roared at the morsel – he was so hungry. He stared up at Fakebeard in confusion.

The alien smiled, baring needley teeth, and muttered something in a tongue Zaeed did not recognize. Then, in common, "a gift, humans." With another chuckle, he turned to plod away.

Zaeed hurled the apple with all his might, pain to his arm be damned. His aim was true, and the fruit splattered off the top of the batarian's domed head, spattering him with pulp. The projectile caught Fakebeard midstride and he slipped and toppled with a surprised roar, sliding ten feet down the river of mud that sluiced down into the prison's depths before reclaiming his purchase.

With a floor-shaking roar, the batarian came charging back to the cell, all four eyes whirling in fury and dripping with mud and bits of apple.

"A gift, batarian," Zaeed spat back, leaning out of the alien's reach on the cell's rear wall and trying to hide the fact that his arm felt like it was about to slough off.

Fakebeard stared at him, a hatred so strong that it transcended the species' barrier etched into his face. His false moustache locks flitted in his furious breath as he spat off what Zaeed had no doubt was an impressive display of Khar'shan's least polite vocabulary. Zaeed just stared back until the alien blinked (and blinked and blinked and blinked) and lumbered away, smoldering.

Zaeed slid back to the floor as the batarian's footsteps receded into silence again. Four days – or near enough – they'd been here. They just had to keep it together a little longer, and Vido would come up with a plan to get them out.

"You think it's poison?" Dung asked, and Zaeed turned to see him holding another one of the apples, his eyes filled with a desperate hunger.

It obviously wasn't poisoned – if the batarians had any intention of killing them, they wouldn't do it half so mercifully – but Zaeed knew what the boy was really asking. He shrugged. "Go ahead and eat it," he said, shaking his head. "You don't have to throw it."

Dung gave a little whimper of gratitude and bit into his apple like a starving man. The apple was wrinkled and pitiful, but somehow the boy made it look like a ten course Bekensteini feast.

Zaeed's stomach growled, and part of him regretted throwing his apple at the batarian. Who knew when the next opportunity he'd have to eat would be? And when Vido _did _come up with a plan to get them out of there, he'd need to be ready with more than the guard patrol schedule. Defiance would benefit him little if he starved in the meantime.

He grimaced and willed his stomach back into silence. He'd made the right call. He _had _to stay defiant, for the other Suns' sake more than anything. They were his men. He was responsible for them. He was the man who led them into battle, and if he couldn't stay iron under the aliens' torture, there was no waythey could. While Vido came up with a plan, Zaeed would keep them alive. And sane.

Still, Zaeed couldn't help but notice how Stefan seemed not to have even noticed his apple. The man continued his quiet rocking. If things kept up like this, Dung would last a week or two, and Zaeed might make it a month if they gave him some water.

But if they didn't get out in the next day or two Stefan wasn't going to be getting out at all.

Zaeed grimaced. "Hurry, Vido, you son of a bitch."

_–_

Stefan lasted three more days.

The day after that, Zaeed and Dung made a break for it.

After so many hours of sitting in cold water Zaeed's legs felt like jelly, and yet his stride was steady as he felt his way through the darkness, trailing his elbow along the permafrost walls as he descended. Warm batarian blood dripped from his hands and the jagged piece of some kind of bamboo he'd fashioned into a makeshift dagger.

Behind him, Dung was panting. "Zaeed... We need to turn around."

"Not without Vido," Zaeed grunted. He pushed on, deeper into the prison. The corridor was almost too dark to see, a straight shot down into the ground with the only light coming from a bank of fluorescents somewhere at its end. This far underground it would be impossible to see one of the guards coming, and even with the two Zaeed had killed while they were distracted taking him out for his daily burnings out of the picture, six remained. They'd run into one eventually. Their only chance was to hear him coming, and so Zaeed strained his ears for the sound of bootsteps over the gentle burble of water.

"They knew he was the leader, Zaeed," Dung tried again. "There's no way he's still alive. Vido isn't exactly the hardest nut to crack..." Dung trailed off. It was generally recognized among the Suns that for all his bravado, Vido was a bit of a coward. He excelled at what he did - he had a better mind and a better education than the rest of them put together - but on the rare occasion he was forced into actual wetwork he tended to fold, and fast. Faced with the hand-burning torture... Even Zaeed had to admit it wouldn't be pretty. "Stefan didn't even-"

"We're checking for his corpse then," Zaeed insisted, cutting him off. The image of Stefan's body face down and cold back in their cell was still fresh in his mind. "If you can't make it, then sit down in the dark and hope a guard doesn't find you. But I am _not _leaving Vido behind." Coward or not, Vido had saved Zaeed's life a good half dozen times. They were friends and partners and they'd been a fantastic team for years. Resisting torture wasn't Vido's job - it was Zaeed's. All too late Zaeed had realized he shouldn't have expected Vido to get them out of the prison in the first place. This wasn't a brains situation, it was a brawn situation. It wasn't about strategy or tactics, it was about grabbing the nearest batarian and braining him against the wall. That was Zaeed's job.

And if he'd realized that a little sooner, Stefan might still be alive. He would not make that mistake again. "Not ever," he said, and continued his slow descent.

Dung had the good sense not to press the issue further, and followed behind Zaeed in silence.

Zaeed gripped his weapon in blood-slicked fingers. He'd found it on the corpse of the guard he'd strangled against their cell bars. The dry, woody reed was no great blade - as best as he could tell, the batarian had been _eating_ it - but though it had splintered when he'd stabbed it into the next guard's eye socket, it had done the job. Zaeed figured it had one more good stab in it before it was useless.

One more dead guard at most, and that was only if Zaeed could hit the soft tissue in the neck or eyes. If he hit an armor plate they were done for - half-starved and wounded as he was he would never be able to kill a healthy batarian hand-to-hand, even with Dung's help.

But that was what they had to work with. The iron keys they'd lifted off of one of the guards were too small to do any real damage, and with their left arms so badly burnt, neither Zaeed nor Dung could bear the spearguns the two dead guards had carried and they'd been forced to leave them behind. They had to make due.

The light at the end of the tunnel continued to grow as they made their way step by laborious step downward. They moved as quickly as they dared but many times had to slow to a crawl, lest they slip on a patch of wet ice and slide all the way down. Zaeed's heart beat furiously in his chest at each second that passed. In the dim light they were almost invisible - at least to one another - but the corridor was so narrow that sneaking past a guard going the opposite direction would be all but impossible.

He was so relieved when they finally stumbled into the dimly-lit cellblock at the corridor's end that he didn't even care that there was a guard waiting for them. The batarian gave a bark of surprise and raised his gun to fire, but it was a second too late and Zaeed bashed the barrel aside. The gun went off with a fantastic report, the fired harpoon burying itself in the icy soil of the opposite wall.

Zaeed's bamboo dagger found its way up into the batarian's chin, splintering as it tore through his soft gullet to the arteries beneath. An eruption of brown-black blood fountained and the alien dropped to the floor, gurgling in astonishment. He shouted wetly, but Zaeed had struck true and his life ebbed away in a great torrent. In seconds he was still, his blood coloring the shallow water below.

Zaeed threw the splinters aside. "Check the cells," he commanded behind him, spitting a mouthful of alien blood to the floor in disgust. Dung nodded and limped his way down the cell block.

Zaeed toed the dead batarian, praying for a real knife or at least another piece of bamboo, but unfortunately once again the guard had only been carrying the two-hand harpoon rifle. "Goddamn fools don't have the sense to carry close quarters weapons in a goddamn tomb," he snarled, before stepping over to check the crack where the misfired harpoon had embedded itself in the wall. That hope proved more fruitful - with a little effort, Zaeed managed to pull part of the harpoon shaft from its resting place. The metal was cold and jagged, but it was better than nothing.

"Zaeed! Over here!" Dung called, and Zaeed breathed a sigh of relief that the prison didn't descend any deeper. He hobbled past the dead alien down to the far end of the cell block, where the shallow river of mud and water disappeared down an enormous drain with a loud slurping sound. Dung pointed into the last cell in the row.

Inside, Vido was blue-skinned, curled up on the floor in the island of dryness the nearby drain afforded him, and for a moment Zaeed feared his friend had met the same fate as Stefan. "Shit," he snarled. A few fumbling attempts with the keys they'd stolen got the cell door open, and Zaeed grabbed Vido under his armpits, dragging him up to a sitting position. "Vido. Get up," he ordered, slapping his old friend across the face.

Vido's eyes opened and stared up at him. He looked terrible - his arm at least as badly burnt as Zaeed's, his face lacerated and bleeding, his nose smashed - but his eyes were as focused and angry as always. He had not given up.

"Vido... You okay?" Zaeed asked.

Vido shook his head. "I'm afraid I may have told them everything."

Zaeed grinned despite himself. His relief was palpable. "Don't worry about it," he insisted, slapping Vido across the back. "We'll get out of here and come back with the rest of the Suns." These batarian bastards would regret caging them.

Vido nodded weakly. "Stefan?"

"Dead."

Vido nodded again. "Sorry." For a long moment, the three of them were quiet. "Alright then," Vido said finally, reaching out a hand. Zaeed hauled him to his feet, but did not miss the fact that his friend needed to lean up against the wall for balance. "Get me out of here."

That proved to be easier said than done. Vido did his best, but the cold and the hunger and the torture had taken their toll on him, and he could not even make it back across the cell block without assistance. They ended up beginning their long climb back up the corridor to the surface with Zaeed and Dung supporting Vido's weight between them as best they could without the use of their left arms. Zaeed had switched the harpoon bolt to his burnt hand so he could brace Vido with his good shoulder, and the effort it took just to keep his fist clenched was agonizing. Still, he wasn't going to drop his weapon and he wasn't going to drop Vido, so he grit his teeth and bore the pain and his partner alike.

It felt like hours before they'd climbed their way back up to the middle cell block, where Stefan's body and the bodies of the two guards Zaeed had killed in their escape still bobbed in the freezing mud. They did not spare a moment to pay their respects. They were exhausted, but there was no time to rest, and they headed up the main corridor without delay, watching the planet's gray sunlight filter down upon them. Each step felt heavier, more precarious than the one before it, and by the last twenty meters they were crawling on their bellies through the slow creek of cold mud that threatened to push the back down into the prison's bowels.

Day had given way to night by the time they finally made it to ground level. Zaeed gave a last, mighty heave, dragging Vido out of the hole before they all collapsed onto the snow. He very nearly fell asleep right there.

But a niggling thought kept him conscious. It had been too easy. Zaeed had only killed three of the eight guards, and none of the other five had caught them during the hours they spent climbing out. There was no way they could have gone undetected for so long. Something was wrong.

Still, Zaeed blinked up at the gray sky for a long time before he noticed they were not alone.

"Impressive." The voice was deeper than any human's, and Zaeed felt his blood go cold. With some considerable effort he managed to flip over onto his belly. There, standing next to the little wooden bunker that stood guard next to the prison tunnel entrance, were three of the guards, bundled up in heavy cloaks and packed as if ready for a journey. At their feet were the corpses of two others, leaking rivulets of blood that stained the slush below. Fakebeard grinned down at the exhausted humans, his false moustaches twitching in the fog of his breath. "He said disrupt the guard patrols and leave the rest to Massani," the batarian grunted to the two behind him. "Applethrower," he said, gesturing at Zaeed. "Looks like he was right."

Zaeed grimaced and pulled from some hidden font of strength to lurch to his feet. It was even colder above ground than below and the planet's icy wind seemed to cut Zaeed to the core, but he didn't care. He would _no_t die on his belly. He took position in front of Vido and Dung and glared at the trio of aliens, switching his pilfered harpoon bolt back to his uninjured hand.

Nobody spoke.

"You didn't eat the apples?"

Zaeed almost jumped to hear Vido's voice behind him. Vido had risen to a sitting position and was staring at Zaeed with disbelief, apparently unconcerned that they'd been caught. Zaeed shook his head, confused.

Vido sighed wearily. "You would not believe the IOU I had to write to get those to you. How much human food do you think this planet has?" Vido shook his head, rising shakily to his feet. "Zaeed, Dung..." he said, holding out an arm, "meet Kasha, Solem, and Tarka Del'Serah. They will be coming with us."

Zaeed blinked. "What?"

Vido apparently didn't hear him - or perhaps just didn't care - and called one of the batarians to him with a gesture. The alien padded up without complaint and offered Vido a broad shoulder to lean on.

Zaeed's exhausted mind struggled to catch up. "Vido... what?"

"They're coming with us," Vido explained as the batarian helped him limp down the short staircase at the prison base. "I offered them a position within the Suns in exchange for their help escaping."

"_Their _help escaping!?" Zaeed asked, pointing his harpoon in disbelief. "Goddamn aliens?" Technically the Suns had started accepting turians the previous year, but Zaeed had never minded the skullfaces. They had a code. They followed orders even better than humans. But batarians? He couldn't believe it. "No way," Zaeed snarled, taking a few uneasy steps towards the lead batarian. "Not them. Not him."

"Yes, Zaeed, _him,_" Vido said, exasperated. "Kasha has a ship ready for us a few miles away. Or did you have some other idea of how we were going to get back to Caleston?" Fakebeard - Kasha - smiled smugly at Zaeed, arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Zaeed felt the fury bubbling out of him. "He killed Stefan," he spat, dropping into a wide stance. Stefan had been alive just yesterday when Zaeed had been taken out for his daily torture session. The image of the red smear that was all that was left of his head when Zaeed had returned was hard to forget. "There is no way we-"

"Your friend killed himself, Applethrower," Kasha said with a smirk. "He could not take the pain." He held out his own left hand, revealing a heavily-scarred palm covered in familiar burn marks. "He was weak."

Zaeed snapped.

He charged forward with a roar, harpoon held aloft. His legs were suddenly filled with strength and he covered the distance to Kasha in a flash.

Then the batarian caught his burnt wrist and twisted, hard.

Stars exploded in front of Zaeed's eyes as his whole body lit up with pain so sharp he did not even feel himself hit the icy ground, nor the batarian's boot on the small of his back. The agony seemed to fill everything, seemed to sap every last ounce of his will. Zaeed Massani almost cried.

When he could finally muster the strength to lift his head again, everyone was staring down at him. Only Dung looked concerned - Vido just looked... disappointed. "Enough, Zaeed," he said and, with a signal to his batarian helper, he turned to start down the path to where the batarian ship no doubt awaited them.

"Vido... They killed Stefan," Zaeed pleaded.

"Get over it," Vido called over his shoulder. "And stop being such a bigot."

* * *

_Presently..._

___–_

Zaeed was astonished when he opened his door and found Jacob Taylor waiting for him.

He buried his surprise. "What?" he growled, blinking at the bright light of the hallway. He'd hardly risen from his seat since Shepard had left him. It had been a day, maybe two days – he honestly couldn't remember – since he'd spoken to anyone who wasn't a gun. He still hadn't bothered cleaning up his armor since his check-up with the doctor - his mud-speckled pauldron and right gauntlet rested in a heap next to a trio of empty bourbon bottles. He'd wiled away the time he wasn't passed out drunk thinking about betrayal and friendship, about old enemies and new, and it seemed the ship was as content to leave him to his moping as he was to mope.

That he'd eventually be interrupted, Zaeed had had no doubt. But to be interrupted by _Taylor?_

Taylor didn't seem to see the queerness of that. "Come spot me, Massani," he said, arms crossed across his chest.

Zaeed's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Weights," Jacob said, gesturing down the hall. "I need a spotter and Tennard and Donnelly are ashore." He stared at Zaeed with tired eyes. "Come spot me," he repeated.

Zaeed almost told him no, almost palmed the door panel and went back to his seat on the floor to mope some more, but something stayed his tongue. Somehow it felt like he'd crammed enough plans for murdering Shepard into the past two days – the chance for a break, to do something physical for an hour or two, was tempting. Sitting on his ass did a man of Zaeed's age no favors. And regardless of what had happened back on Zorya, Jacob was no threat to him. He was unarmored, stripped down to his uniform pants and sleeveless undershirt, but the indentations where his pauldrons dug into the skin were still visible on his shoulders. He'd just come back from planetside. And he wanted to lift weights.

Zaeed searched Jacob's face for duplicity, but there was none to be found.

He wanted to lift weights with _Zaeed._

Zaeed's curiosity got the better of him.

"Give me a second," he found himself saying. Jacob nodded and stood by the doorframe while Zaeed tossed off his breastplate and jerkin and pulled on a t-shirt. He smelled rank, no doubt, but Jacob said nothing.

The two men headed for the elevator. The lower deck was quiet – quieter than Zaeed had ever heard it. From his room he had heard the engines power down a few naps ago, had heard the Kodiak making its trips back and forth from the hangar, but now that he was out and about the silence was eerie. There was nothing – no snoring krogan, no pacing bootsteps of Jack down below, no hiss of torches or clink of tools as the engineers repaired some instrument or another. It was deserted.

"Thought the weights ended up spaced," Zaeed observed, peering down into the hangar to the spot where the bench had once been. The hangar, too, was abandoned.

"I have another set in the armory," Jacob grunted, palming the elevator panel to part the doors. "Not as fancy, but it works."

Zaeed nodded.

The upper decks were no louder than below, and when the elevator doors opened to the CIC Zaeed found it abandoned as well, the dozens of consoles that lined the walls unmanned, the starmap dim. As he followed Jacob to the armory, Zaeed tried to squint down the hall to catch a glance at the pilot's chair, but it was too far to tell if the kid had left his post too.

"They're planetside," Jacob supplied, reading Zaeed's thoughts. "Planet down there's tropical and Shepard decided to give the crew some beach time before we go back to Minuteman" He shook his head.

Zaeed grimaced. "The whole ship?"

Jacob stared at him warily for a moment – perhaps remembering the fistfight they'd had back on Zorya – but he relented. "Garrus is here," he said finally. "Working on the battery. Joker's up front. A few others."

Zaeed nodded. "Huh," he grunted, frowning. It hardly seemed wise, sending most of the ground team away from the _Normandy. _Seemed like asking for trouble – if they were really going back to Minuteman Station then the end of their mission was at hand. Everything was at risk.

Though perhaps in a day or two the crew would be heading off to their suicide mission. It was hard to blame them for wanting a little vacation, a last chance to feel a little sunlight on their faces before they flew into death's mouth.

And Jacob was up here. "Not in the mood to relax yourself?" Zaeed asked, watching Jacob pull a retractable weight bench out of one of the armory's wall compartments. Normally he'd assume the man was skipping shore leave to stay with Miranda – he'd hardly left her side since Bekenstein – but the fact that she was nowhere to be seen and that he was hunting _Zaeed _down for company put a hole in that theory. Jacob didn't answer him, racking weights onto the bar in sullen silence. He flopped down onto the bench and, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, hefted the bar onto his chest.

Zaeed watched in silence. He'd always regarded Taylor as a bit of a pansy, but he had to admit the boy was strong as an ox. Patient, smooth, controlled motions. He lifted the bar like it was nothing, face set in a determined scowl. He finished his set without any help from Zaeed and stood. The men traded places in silence, Zaeed rolling down to lay on the bench. He rubbed his hands together and took hold of the bar. It lifted easily enough, and he brought it down to rest on his sternum for a few seconds.

It was surprising how good it felt to use his muscles again after days in his quarters. Normally Zaeed Massani was not a man to rest on his laurels, and his restlessness had gnawed at him as the hours had trickled by in his room. He'd felt completely spent, laying there on the floor. He'd emptied half of his bourbon supply until the prospect of opening another bottle seemed too insurmountable and he'd stopped. Even sleeping had felt like too much effort. The past twenty years of his life had been rent meaningless in the space of a few hours. What point was there in doing anything at all? But now, with the weights in his hands, he felt energized. He matched Jacob's set and then threw in another two reps in silent challenge. He wasn't young anymore but he was still strong. He hefted the bar back into place.

Jacob added more weight and they traded places again.

They worked in silence, and as the calm quietude of exercise layered in around them Zaeed found himself contemplating his next move. As much as he'd thought about it over the past few days, he'd made little progress.

His money was in danger, and that meant it was time to decide if he was staying.

It wasn't like he had to. Shepard had offered to let him out on Minuteman. From there it'd be a quick shuttle ride to Omega, where work would be plentiful. He was the best merc out there and his services were hotly demanded – it was a rare day when he finished a job and did not have three more waiting for his attention. After a few months on the _Normandy_ he was sure he'd accumulated a healthy backlog, if he'd only bother to check any of the dummy accounts he used to communicate with clients. There would be plenty of selection. Easy jobs, violent jobs. Solo ops or private army work. Nothing so lucrative as what Cerberus had offered him, of course, but plenty of options he could pursue.

Still, the thought of leaving by any means other than by dying in a blazing shootout in the _Normandy's _lower decks left a bad taste in Zaeed's mouth. This was an interesting job, and it was still possible that Cerberus would come through with his fee. Shepard could have thrown him out on his ass already, or had the krogan kill him, but he hadn't. He'd just given an ultimatum – swallow your pride and stay or get off my ship. Zaeed was a prideful man, but he could eat crow when the situation called for it. Maybe he could forgive Shepard long enough to see the mission through.

Maybe.

"Shepard give any indication as to when this shore leave would be ending?" he asked as he helped Jacob reseat the weights. They were out of plates now, and Jacob was covered in a thin sheet of sweat when he rose from the bench, panting.

"Said a day or two, if I was okay with it," Jacob said, taking his position behind the bar.

Zaeed's eyes narrowed at that but he did not protest. He laid on the bench and grasped the bar. It was getting harder and harder to keep up with Jacob, and the younger man had only managed four reps in his last set. Zaeed would be lucky to get three.

He grit his teeth and lifted the bar out of its socket.

It took all of his strength not to drop it on himself. His arms shook, his face felt like it was burning, and through it all Jacob stared down on him, face dour. Zaeed gave a great heave and got the weight up once, but by the time he'd lowered it back to his chest he was out of steam and he needed Jacob's help to get it back up.

He sat up, winded and red-faced. He was spent.

Jacob sat next to him without a word. The boy looked distant. Zaeed considered himself pretty good at reading people - sometimes it was a matter of life and death - but he wouldn't have had to be to see that something was wrong with Jacob. Something must have happened on Aiea, something that had made Jacob want to put some distance between himself and the planet. Zaeed tried to remember what Shepard had said they were doing on the planet – something about finding a shipwreck.

"You're a tough kid," he admitted, curiosity getting the better of him.

Jacob shrugged, staring out the window. "I try."

"You find your wreck?"

Jacob was silent for a long moment. "Yeah. And my father."

Zaeed nodded as the pieces fell into place. Father troubles. "Ahh. Not... entirely what you expected, then."

"Not entirely."

Zaeed rose unsteadily to his feet to lean against one of the workbenches. He'd learned long ago that just because he was old didn't mean people cared to hear his advice, but like always he found himself giving it anyway. "Fathers'll do that to you," he said. "My own left me in the middle of a goddamn warzone not six months after my mother abandoned us." It had pissed him off at the time, but he couldn't help but smile at the memory now. Lotterio Massani had been a small, quiet man, tough as nails and with a bleeding heart that'd impress Shepard. A better man than his son in many respects. But he hadn't been able to cut it in the long run. Something had gotten to him – the war, or his wife, or First Contact, or something, and he'd snapped. Zaeed smirked. "Bloody bastard ended up dead in a bar in Barcelona."

"Turns out mine's a rapist." Jacob's voice was quiet. "And a slaver."

Zaeed grimaced. "Sorry, kid."

"I just feel so stupid," Jacob said, shaking his head. "I spent all this time remembering him as a good man, and then I find out he's been alive all this time doing..." He looked like he might spit. "...this."

Zaeed shrugged. "Get over it. It's the way of the galaxy. Good men can be hard to tell." Jacob glared at him like he'd said something wrong, and Zaeed felt a flicker of annoyance. "You're a tough kid, Taylor, but you are far too old to be so goddamn naive," he growled. "You work for Cerberus, for chrissake. People are shit, plain and simple." He jabbed a finger at the younger man. "Even the ones you worship."

"I'm a good man. Shepard's a good man."

Zaeed laughed. "Give it time, Taylor. You see enough shit like _that,_" he waved at the window, to the blue-green planet below, "and you realize good men are just men who haven't been caught yet."

"That's not true."

"You not learn anything from finding out who your father really was? You really gonna let that pass you by like it didn't happen?"

Jacob looked miserable. He cradled his head in one hand, staring at his feet. "It was better when he was dead."

"He wasn't dead. Just not who you thought he was."

Jacob cringed like Zaeed's words had bitten him. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered, brushing past Zaeed to lay on the weight bench again. He grabbed the bar and throttled it into the air like _it _was the rapist, like it could undo what he'd seen.

Zaeed could see right through him. He could evade it all he wanted, but Jacob _had _learned something. Maybe it was the looming suicide mission, or maybe it was just that his father was the last shit he'd needed to see, but Jacob had learned something. Zaeed smiled. "It _is _true, what I said," he insisted. "Deal with it."

Jacob manhandled the bar up again. "Shut up, Zaeed," he spat through gritted teeth.

Zaeed shook his head and grinned as he watched Jacob try to muscle his way out of it. "Nah, Taylor, you are just too goddamn transparent. It's a damn funny coincidence that the same day you find out your dad's a goddamn raper's the day you come befriend me." He was amused to see Jacob stiffen at the insult.

"We're not friends," Jacob insisted, resting the bar on his chest. He lifted it again, grunting with the effort as it rose once, twice, and three times.

"Why not? _I'm _not the _goddamn raper_ here."

Jacob let the weight drop with a great _clang_ and sat up, staring at Zaeed with a face twisted in anger. "Shut the fuck up, Zaeed. You set a civilian refinery on fire and then punched Shepard when he called you on it. You don't get to talk about my father being..." He hesitated, not wanting to say it.

"A... Goddamn... _Raper?"_ Zaeed finished for him.

For the second time that week, Jacob hit him. The blow landed below his left cheekbone, right on the bruise the first had left, and Zaeed staggered back into a weapon fabricator, seeing stars. The pain in his face was roaring by the time he'd regained his footing, but he only felt like laughing.

He spat blood and smiled at Jacob, who stood fuming at him, broad shoulders heaving with rage. "You done?"

_–_

It was another half hour later, while they were sliding the weight plates back into their compartments in the wall, that Jacob spoke again. "I shouldn't have hit you," he said, voice quiet. "You didn't deserve that. You're not a bad man."

"Yeah I am," Zaeed muttered. He grimaced at his reflection in a polished benchtop, wincing as he probed the spongy double bruise that had blossomed across the unscarred side of his face with one finger. "You got a hell of a right cross, Taylor, even if took two of them," he said, testing the pain. "I look like shit."

"Thanks."

He grinned at Jacob. Hitting him had done the trick, and as tender as Zaeed's face felt, Jacob's mood had markedly improved for the second half of their workout. "They always go for the pretty side of my face."

Jacob shrugged, unapologetic. "You _did _deserve it on Zorya."

"Not one of my finer moments," Zaeed admitted. "Bloody goddamn stupid of me, attacking the commander. Goddamn childish." It hurt to admit it, but he'd been a fool to turn his anger on his teammates, no matter what they had cost him. It was unprofessional. Dangerous. Beneath him. And unnecessary - even if Jack and Jacob hadn't been there to restrain him and he _had _hurt or killed Shepard, it would have cost him his Cerberus contract and made an enemy out of the Illusive Man. Zaeed normally prided himself on picking his battles more carefully than that. And once the collectors were dealt with, if he still wanted Shepard dead, he could just bide his time until one of the man's legions of enemies put a job out on him and then get _paid _to do it up right. That was how a man dealt with revenge. Lashing out randomly was for children and krogan.

"And yet here I am, the same day I find out my dad's a... a goddamn rapist... talking to you." Jacob sighed.

"Funny how the galaxy works sometimes."

Jacob nodded. "And the funniest part is that as much as I've hated you, this whole mission you've been straight as an arrow. Never gave me the slightest real reason to distrust you. Might have saved my life, even, on Horizon. And I still hated you."

"Might have?" Zaeed asked, remembering the way the krogan had positively stunk with rage as he'd charged Jacob. If it hadn't been for Zaeed's reflexes and sharp aim, Jacob would have been paste, no doubt about it.

"And yet," Jacob said, ignoring him, "it wasn't until the other day I thought I might have been too harsh."

Zaeed said nothing.

"You followed us," Jacob explained, staring at him. "Me and Jack and Shepard. When you had the choice to go after Vido or save the civilians, you chose to come with us and save them."

Zaeed laughed at that. "You honestly think I gave a shit about a few workers?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"No," Jacob said, shaking his head. "I think you'd have let them burn. But something convinced you. Something about Shepard, or this mission, or keeping your promises. Something convinced you to do the right thing."

Zaeed frowned. Suddenly, his head was full of anger that he could not quite explain. "Hardly had a choice," he growled, standing up. "There were fifty goddamn Suns between me and Vido." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to argue the point, but something in Jacob's admission made him feel furious. Where did Jacob get off judging _his _actions? "Leave the goddamn psychoanalysis to Chambers and don't talk about what you don't understand, Boy."

Jacob was undeterred. "Wouldn't have mattered. You're Zaeed Goddamn Massani, remember?"

* * *

_20 years previously..._

___–_

Zaeed was furious.

By all accounts he should have been happy. The Suns were growing by leaps and bounds. By the end of the week, they would be moving their base of operations on Caleston to an enormous compound in the mountains, large and defensive enough to protect them from whatever the magistrate might feel like sending their way. A few months earlier their holdings on Zorya had finally started turning a profit, they'd expanded operations into Invictus and Cenderes, and Vido had been hinting that soon they would be setting up a permanent presence on the Citadel as well, a feat which only Eclipse among the major merc groups could boast. They were becoming very wealthy men.

But things were changing. The Suns were getting crowded. Every day they were less an army and more a business. And there were the aliens...

Zaeed was often furious these days.

The rest of the Suns were giving him a wide berth. The warehouse where he'd decided to fume should have been full of men packing up their equipment for the move – there were still many tons of cargo, of drugs and contraband, of weapons and computers yet to load – and yet as soon as he'd stormed through the doors the other Suns had suddenly remembered pressing engagements elsewhere and had scattered.

The news had already spread. Nobody wanted to antagonize Zaeed. Nobody wanted to risk meeting Kasha's fate. Even the batarians – normally so hellbent on proving they were unafraid of humans – had the sense to stay away from him.

Zaeed was almost disappointed at that.

For now the cargo crates would have to do. Zaeed shot at them mercilessly, not caring what valuables might have been inside. Splinters of polymer and steel went flying as he unloaded round after round into any target he could find, anything to spend his rage. The walls shook with the gunfire.

Zaeed snarled as his pistol overheated. Cursing, he ejected the heat sink and reached for a replacement, but his hands were shaking so hard he fumbled and dropped it. It _ting_ed against the concrete floor and rolled away to join all its spent brethren

"Son of a bitch," Zaeed swore, digging in his pocket for another. He was out. "Son of a _bitch!_" He stared at his feet, trying to pick out the fresh sink.

He was spared the need to swear again by the sound of the door sliding open with a bang. Zaeed didn't have to look up to know who it was – only one man would be bold enough to approach him when he was like this. The catwalks that ringed the room creaked under Vido's footsteps as he descended to the ground floor.

"Screw off, Vido," Zaeed growled, still scanning the floor for his last heatsink. "Don't want to hear it."

Vido said nothing. His footsteps continued, calmly, quietly, until he stopped amongst the pile of discarded clips and Zaeed found himself staring down at his partner's armored boots. Grimacing, Zaeed lifted his gaze enough to meet his Vido's eyes. Vido was stone-faced. He was armored in a set of the blue and white armor he'd recently had the Suns adopt, gleaming and untouched by battle, and unarmed but for a long black case he held in his hands. He was silent, eyes demanding explanation.

"He deserved it," Zaeed found himself explaining. "Four-eyed bastard disobeyed my _direct _orders. Took his squad and went after a target I _told _him to let go." Zaeed had spent enough time with the batarians to have learned their feelings on retreating enemies – "no one leaves the battle unwounded" was one of their favorite tenets of their pillars of strength – but when following that tenet meant leaving a whole goddamn flank unprotected... It was bullshit. They were goddamn terrorists. Zaeed did not give Vido a chance to rebut. He whirled on Vido, fire in his eye. "They left the flank open and it got _three men killed_," he bellowed. Martinez, Gaul, and Ravius. All good men. All dead, now, because the batarians couldn't hold ranks. "I hope I put that bearded bastard in the hospital for _weeks._"

"Four men," Vido said calmly. "You killed him."

Zaeed's rant died on his lips. Kasha was… dead? He knew he'd hit the batarian hard – he remembered the crunch of flesh against his fist as soon as the gloating fool of an alien had come lumbering up after the mission with a big shit eating grin on his needley face. He remembered the spurt of blood that fountained down the alien's face so thick his beard piercings were lost in the torrent. But _dead? _He hadn't meant to kill him. "I only hit him, Vido," he protested.

Vido shrugged and walked past Zaeed, gingerly stepping over the piles of spent heatsinks. "Shard of bone into his brain is what Dr. Povoy tells me. Hemorrhaged out pretty fast." Vido said it tonelessly, like he was talking about the weather. His calmness was unnerving.

Zaeed expected Vido would be apocalyptically mad when he found out he'd started another fight with the aliens. In the past months he'd tried – genuinely tried – to follow Vido's lead and welcome the batarians into the fold, but it seemed like everything the monsters did riled him up. Ever since the three brothers had joined (and immediately been made captains as per Vido's promises), more than a hundred batarians had flocked to join the Blue Suns' ranks. Most were ex-slaves or casteless, the scum of the Hegemony. They were vicious and undisciplined and unpredictable, and hardly a mission went by where one of them didn't cause Zaeed a problem. The brothers were even worse – while Tarak was more or less unthreatening, Kasha and Solem seemed to have become drunk with their newfound authority, and had been turning the Suns into their own personal thugs and drugrunners.

And Vido had just let it slide. He'd retreated to his planning rooms – sometimes for days in a row – and communicated almost exclusively through one mouthpiece or another. Even Zaeed – the goddamn co-founder, for Chrissake – rarely saw Vido in person anymore, and these days when he did it more often than not only turned into another shouting match.

But today, mere hours after he'd apparently _killed _one of the brothers, Vido looked completely unruffled.

It was unnerving to say the least.

"I didn't mean to-" Zaeed started.

"I have a gift for you," Vido interrupted, and set the black case atop a nearby workbench. He slid it towards Zaeed.

Zaeed's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Vido's face was unreadable as he tapped the top of the case. "Alright," he said, holstering his gun. The case was unadorned but very fine, polished black leather over a steel shell held closed by a trio of gold latches. It was the sort of case you might expect to see at one of the fundraisers Vido liked so much, something more at home on Bekenstein than on a wild, lawless planet like Caleston, but all the same Zaeed couldn't help but be curious. At Vido's gesture, he clicked open the latches and opened it.

It was a gun.

"Wow," he said. He reached into the case and tenderly lifted out the weapon. An assault rifle, it was polished and clean, and yet well-used. It had seen combat before. It was heavily scratched, its forward grip stained by sweat, with a grainy buildup of condensed metal vapor that ran down the barrel. The stock was chipped, and a trio of bulletholes stared out like empty eye sockets from above the handle. "First series Avenger model," Zaeed said. Despite the wear and tear, the gun looked serviceable. "From the Contact war. This is a classic gun, Vido."

"Jessie would need to be," Vido said. He smiled, proud of himself. "I did tell you I'd replace that stupid ukelele eventually, didn't I?"

Normally Zaeed would have corrected Vido – Jessie had been a _mandolin_, for the thousandth time – but now he was too awed to bother. The mere mention of Jessie's name brought the memories flooding back, memories of the happier times when the Suns had first gotten started that had felt so distant of late. He'd almost forgotten – he'd lost the mandolin a couple years back when they'd been forced to abandon one of their bases in a hurry, and he'd never found a suitable replacement to inherit the name.

But this gun…

"Jesus," Zaeed said. He ran his finger over the rear grip. "New grip and trigger assembly from an Avenger three," he recited, feeling the unmarked steel, clean and smooth compared to the rest of the gun's roughness.

"That gun," Vido said, pointing, "was one of the first guns man ever fired at aliens. She was owned by a Lieutenant Gary Hossle, stationed at Shanxi in the First Contact War with the skullfaces." He tapped at the bullethole above the trigger. "Turian sharpshooter blasted it out of his hand, along with four of his fingers, but not before he'd killed a half dozen of the bastards." He chuckled. "Hossle's family had the handle replaced and put the thing in a bloody museum, but I think a weapon like this has a few years left on her."

"Years," Zaeed agreed. "How'd you get it?"

Vido shrugged. "Hossle's brother pawned it. More or less as is. I just had it cleaned up and put in a case."

Zaeed lifted the rifle to a firing position and stared down the scope. It was simple – none of the targeting VI's common in more modern weapons - but when he took aim at the crate he'd been using for target practice and pulled down the trigger, the shot went true. The rifle roared and the crate exploded into shards. "She's accurate too," Zaeed said, grinning. "Cools quick too. Barely heats at all." He fired a few more shots, listening to the quiet beeping of the gun's coolant systems. He stared at the gun in his hands. She'd never replace the first Jessie, and yet she felt fantastic in his grip, like she belonged there.

_Jessie._

He turned to look at Vido, not quite sure what to say. "She's beautiful, Vido."

Vido nodded magnanimously. "I'm glad you're happy."

For a long moment, the men admired the gun in silence. Neither spoke. It had been clear to both of them that they'd been growing apart for a long time now. When they'd first started as mercs their partnership had made sense – Vido did the thinking and Zaeed led the men. But now the Suns numbered more than a thousand, more than Zaeed could reasonably command. Where before they had needed to trust one another to survive, now they needed to be organized. They needed other commanders, they needed logistics, they needed a new fancy home base in the mountains.

The Blue Suns were a business now, not a squad. And they had to adapt or be left behind.

Zaeed sighed as he set Jessie back in her case and took a seat on a nearby box of munitions. He was getting old. His hair was thinning. Maybe he was too old to be punching every batarian that pissed him off. "I'm sorry, Vido," he said finally, and this time he meant it.

"The brothers are furious," Vido said, as if he hadn't heard him. "I had Solem confined to the barracks so he wouldn't come down here and goad you into killing him too."

"Tarak?"

Vido shrugged. "He's a lot less upset. Probably thinks he'll get all of Kasha's men out of the deal." Of the three brothers, Zaeed had always tolerated Tarak the easiest. He was quieter, more dependable, more _human _than Solem or Kasha, behaviors that had quickly established him as the most subordinate of the three.

There was another long beat of silence.

"You're on the losing side here, Zaeed," Vido said. "The batarians are staying."

Zaeed grimaced. "I kinda gathered that. But of course, I seem to remember that there's a lot of money to be had on the losing side." He stared at Vido.

"_If _you can survive," Vido finished, staring back.

"I can survive a lot of shit, Vido," Zaeed said. He shrugged. "I _have _survived a lot of shit."

Vido nodded. "Killed a batarian with your bare hands today."

"Damn right."

Vido sighed again. "You've put me in a position, Zaeed. Kasha's brothers aren't going to take this sitting down."

"Don't imagine so," Zaeed agreed, unconcerned. "Let them come." He had little good to say about the batarians, but he wasn't _afraid _of them. They were dangerous allies – they were unpredictable and disloyal – but those same traits made them unthreatening enemies. It was the Suns Zaeed worried about – no matter _what _the brothers did, they weren't about to get the better of _him. _Let Solem come – he'd smash _his _face in too. Zaeed wasn't afraid.

But then Vido stared at him, and something in his eyes gave Zaeed pause. "So here is what you're going to do," Vido said, and he was frowning now. "You're going to go to Solem and Tarak and you're going to _beg _their forgiveness."

Zaeed's brows rose. "The hell I a-"

"And _then,_" Vido interrupted, holding up an armored hand, "you're going to offer Solem your job. You're going to resign from the Blue Suns."

Zaeed's mouth hung open. For a long moment, he didn't know what to say. He just stared at Vido, waiting for his partner to say he was joking, to take it back. "You can't be serious."

Vido ignored him. "I'll offer you a... let's say... six hundred thousand credit severance package," he said, counting on his fingers, "and you will leave peacefully, and you will never contact me or any of the Suns ever again."

Zaeed stared at Vido, shocked. It didn't seem possible. "Vido... you and me _founded _the goddamn Suns. You can't kick me out." How could he even _think _that Zaeed would just walk away? After all they'd done? After all the blood he'd spilled - enemy blood and his alike? After all the friends he'd lost? After all the times he'd saved Vido's goddamn _life!?_

Vido didn't answer him.

Zaeed stared daggers at his partner. "No," he snarled, anger blooming in his chest again. "Fuck you, Vido. I'm not gonna do that."

Vido sighed. "I didn't figure you would."

Zaeed felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, shocked, to see that six Suns – all armored in white and blue – had filed in behind him with solemn looks on their faces. Mwembe and Dung, Sergey and Courtney, Cole and Solomon. They'd been so silent he hadn't even heard them come in, and they did not speak now.

They were his men, men he'd led into battle dozens of times, men he called friends, and yet none of them would even meet his eye.

He turned back to Vido, who had pulled Jessie back out of her case. He stared at Zaeed, unblinking.

"...Vido?"

* * *

_Presently..._

___–_

Jessie had taken many forms in her long life. She'd captured Zaeed's heart as a girl, captured women's hearts as a mandolin, and shot a few men's hearts out as a gun.

Now, resting on the bench next to him, Jessie the gun looked her age.

Zaeed took another quiet swig of his drink. His crates had been returned – and with them, the rest of his much-needed supply of booze – but his drinking had taken a quieter intensity now. He sat on the floor next to Jessie, lost in memories of a long and eventful life.

Jessie looked so fragile, so broken in the dim light. Smeared with mud from Zorya and a hundred other worlds, her barrel cracked, her trigger loose with overuse. Where once she'd been pristine and gleaming, now she was a rusted old battle axe. It didn't feel like terribly long ago that she'd been top-of-the-line. The Avenger rifles had been one of the first human designs to use mass effect field-accelerated micro-pellets instead of bullets – a fact he'd once maligned when the surgeons had told him that her pellet had broken up in his skull, its fragments too small to make a proper memento – but now Jessie looked like the relic she was. Obsolete. It hurt to admit it – Zaeed had always fancied his girl as cutting edge, even long after he'd stopped taking her own missions.

Now Jessie couldn't even fire, could only kill a man by battering him into a pulp.

Maybe it was time he put her aside.

Zaeed stole another glance at the open crate next to him. It had been closed for more than a decade now, almost lost to sight and memory, but Zaeed had lugged it from mission to mission, never begrudging the weight. Now he peered into it again.

"Goddamnit, Jessie," he observed, taking another drink. The alcohol was warm in his belly, and made it easier not to slam the lid back on the crate and toss it out the garbage disposal.

Zaeed stared at the mandolin, gleaming up at him from its home in a case in the bottom of the crate. It had been in deep, locked up tight, but now it looked as pristine, as _real _as when he'd first laid eyes on it.

He'd bought it (_not her, not yet)_ on his fiftieth birthday, after he'd already spent ten years hunting for Vido in vain. By that point he and Jessie had been on dozens of missions together, killed dozens of men, earned and spent millions of credits. They'd carved out a reputation as the most dangerous, the most effective, the _best _mercenary in the galaxy. It didn't matter that Vido had given him the gun - in fact, it only made him all the more determined that she should be in his hand when he finally ended that miserable bastard's life.

But ten years of searching and finding nothing had worn on him and he'd gone all the way back to Earth to buy himself a mandolin, just so that someday, when Vido was finally dead and gone, he would have someplace to go. He could give Jessie the Gun her well-deserved rest and pick up a new Jessie, a Jessie the Third, a girl he could retire with and maybe try to find his own. He'd never been in love with the idea of retirement, but he'd been fifty years old and a millionaire and the thought of sitting on a chair on a dock somewhere had felt like a nice light at the end of the tunnel.

Now he was sixty and Vido had eluded him yet again. Twenty years, and that light at the end of the tunnel still looked very faint and far away.

_Vido had gotten away._

And the worst part - the absolute worst part - was that Zaeed wasn't sure if he thought that was a good thing or not. As he traced his gaze down the grain of the mandolin's hand-carved panels, Jacob's words pounded in his head. Had he _let _Vido escape? Was it possible that he didn't _want _to face his old friend? Maybe Shepard was innocent, maybe all this time - all these twenty goddamn years - Zaeed had been sabotaging himself. Maybe he was... afraid.

"Now _that's_ bullshit," Zaeed growled, shaking the thought from his head as soon as it had appeared. He looked over to his gun, grinning incredulously. "Vido shot me in the goddamn head, Jessie. What else can he do to me?"

Still. Vido had been his best friend, and Vido had shot him in the head, had taken everything from him and left him for dead over a stupid argument. Zaeed had seen a lot of awful things in his life, seen death and famine and disease and slavery, and yet it was hard to imagine anything half so terrible as betrayal. After what he'd done, killing Vido wasn't just revenge. It wasn't bloodlust, it was justice. It was _self-respect. _Shepard didn't understand - _couldn't _understand - how much Zaeed needed to make things even.

"He's a stupid boy," Zaeed observed, sighing as he slumped back to rest his head against the wall. He pulled Jessie into his lap and closed his eyes, running his fingers along her familiar scars. "Young and stupid." Maybe it was just the booze, but Zaeed felt the knot of despair and anger that Zorya had left in his belly loosening. "He doesn't understand."

But that was just it - Shepard _couldn't _understand. And it wasn't because he was young, or because he hadn't seen the things Zaeed had seen. It was because he'd never been betrayed. He'd never been through it.

And he never would.

Shepard's crew loved him. The scenario Zaeed had thrown at him a few days ago - the thought of Tali and Chakwas and Joker holding the commander down while Garrus shot him in the head - was patently ridiculous, even to Zaeed. Shepard couldn't even conceive of it.

That was why he didn't understand. That was why he'd insisted on trying to take Vido in alive. In Shepard's mind, somehow Zaeed and Vido were still friends. He thought that some kind of reconciliation was still possible, that Zaeed's anger was just a childish argument that he'd come to regret later when cooler heads prevailed.

It was stupid. It was naive. It had cost Zaeed twenty years of his life, and maybe it had cost him the chance to _ever _catch Vido.

And yet it was suddenly hard to blame Shepard.

"He's just a goddamn kid," Zaeed grunted again. "But he runs a good ship." He had to admit, he _enjoyed _working on the _Normandy. _Shepard had his faults but he let his crew make up for them. He listened to advice. He thought about his actions but he wasn't afraid to act when he had to. And he cared about his mission and his men as much as they cared about him. It had been a long time since Zaeed had had that camaraderie in his own life, but he remembered it like it had been only yesterday. It was a good feeling.

And now those same men and that same commander were down there on the beach, carousing and swimming and trying to pretend they weren't about to head off on a suicide mission.

Zaeed didn't sugar coat it - most of them wouldn't be coming back. He doubted he'd be the _only _survivor this time, but whatever was beyond the Omega-4 Relay would not be pretty. It'd cost lives. The crew knew this, of course, but he doubted if many of them had really ever confronted such a stark reminder of their mortality before. They must have been scared out of their minds, the lot of them.

Zaeed knew his mind was made up.

He cast one last look at the mandolin and then shut the lid. "Maybe later," he said, smiling at the beat up gun in his hands. He wasn't ready to give up on Vido just yet.

But he could set it aside, for now.

He headed for the hangar.

* * *

_20 years previously..._

___–_

Zaeed stumbled into the street, Jessie clenched in his blood-slicked fingers.

Everything was pain. The shot had taken most of the right side of his face, and the wound felt chilled in the afternoon's cool air. Zaeed's strength poured out of his body in a torrent, trailing behind him in a long, crimson smear, and through the disbelief and the anger and the fear Zaeed could feel the blackness creeping around the edges of his mind. The death he'd avoided for so long had finally caught up with him.

And yet he made it to the street in time to see Vido's ship rising from the compound's private hangar, with the rest of the Suns on it. It was all that was left, the only thing that could pierce through the anger and pain left of his head. He did not see the street, or the hovercars that swerved to avoid him as he staggered out into traffic. He did not see the gaggles of gawking aliens. He only saw the ship lift into the sky.

He opened fire, peppering the retreating ship with bullets, but in a flash it was gone.

Zaeed tried to call out. Tried to beg _WHY_ but he could not string the words together and all he managed was a strangled roar of fury and agony.

Jessie kicked in his hands, over and over and over and over.

Rage was a _hell _of an anesthetic, but it didn't do much for blood loss.

He fell over and blackness took him.

_–_

* * *

**Codex Entry: The Legend of Qoh'hesh and the Batarian Hands**

"_Never shake hands with a batarian_" – retiring Alliance ambassador Clarence Davila, when asked what advice he'd offer his successor.

Though it has been almost two millennia since the batarians made first contact with Citadel races, batarian culture remains only poorly understood by the galactic community. Due to the insularity of the species, clues to batarian history and culture must be gleaned from speaking to escaped slaves and merchants or the warrior-caste slavers that prowl the Terminus Systems. The ritualistic scarring of a batarian warrior's left arm is a tradition that goes back thousands of years, and new research by asari linguists has connected it to worship of Qoh'hesh, a heroic figure from batarian mythology.

According to legend, Qoh'hesh was a batarian gladiator of the moetheth'col slave class who lived in a time when Khar'shan was ruled by thirteen feuding tribes. Despite being a slave, Qoh'hesh was a powerful warrior, so skilled with a greatsword that he was selected to represent his master's tribe in the great Tribal Melee – a deadly tournament of slave fights held by the assembled tribes each year at the foot of Mount Herehth.

Drunk on his many victories and emboldened by his master's dependence on him, Qoh'hesh fell in love with and courted Latesh, one of his master's concubines. Qoh'hesh swore to her that he would win the Melee and use the golden champion necklace that was its prize to purchase freedom for them both, but on the eve of the Melee Latesh betrayed Qoh'hesh to his master, who had his right hand amputated at the wrist as punishment.

But so powerful a warrior was Qoh'hesh – and so strong his rage at Latesh's betrayal – that he fought in and won the Melee anyway, wielding his greatsword one-handed to defeat every opponent sent against him. Standing before the collected tribes, Qoh'hesh cast off his slave collar and replaced it with the golden champion's necklace. He challenged the power of all thirteen tribes and stole away, fleeing to the peak of Mount Herehth, where he built a wooden altar and melted down the necklace in tribute to the Gods. He remained atop the freezing mountain for forty days, praying and awaiting the tribes' response to his challenge.

Though there are different incarnations of the legend, all versions agree that when the tribes finally sent their armies against him to reclaim the stolen gold and reaffirm their right to rule, Qoh'hesh fought with the power of a thousand batarians. He dashed the tribes' armies upon the mountainside one by one, slaughtering entire regiments with graceful ease. Some tellings say that Qoh'hesh died four times on the mountainside, only to reincarnate and resume the fight each, while others insist that Qoh'hesh was protected by the Gods and no blade could touch him. Either way, Qoh'hesh ultimately defeated Khar'shan's armies in forty more days of continuous battle, until only the tribal leaders were left. The leaders – knowing they had been defeated – prostrated themselves before Qoh'hesh and begged his forgiveness. Qoh'hesh instructed them to place their right hands palm-down on his altar and seek forgiveness from the Gods, but when they complied, he sliced their hands off and threw them into the sky to form the constellation of Asoon, a war banner for all of Qoh'hesh's enemies to see.

It is said that Qoh'hesh then proceeded to wage a violent war across Khar'shan that ultimately resulted in the unification of the thirteen tribes and the Thousand Years of Might. Most versions end with Qoh'hesh passing away at a ripe old age, undefeated king of the planet. Though obviously embellished, Qoh'hesh's story is retold as historical fact in various contexts to celebrate batarian resilience, combat prowess, honor, and reincarnation as a means to rise up the social ladder.

Qoh'hesh's legend's influence can be seen in many aspects of batarian warrior culture, but most notably in lending the name and beliefs to the Qoh'col, a specialized class of elite batarian slave warriors. The Qoh'col fight only with their left hands out of reverence to their namesake and do all other tasks with the right. Misusing either hand is considered a grave sin and is punishable by death, and so most Qoh'col keep their left hands tied to their belts when not in battle. Qoh'col warriors' left hands are subjected to extreme tortures from a young age, until they are capable of withstanding enormous pain. Though the Qoh'col are slaves – as Qoh'hesh was – they are the highest slave caste and in most batarian city-states can even take mates and own property. They are largely ceremonial, mostly employed as expensive bodyguards or in gladiatorial matches, but the rare instances in which they have been deployed in battle against alien forces have earned them a reputation for brutality and unstoppable determination. The human colony of Didieri – entirely lost to slavers in 2161 – is believed to have been attacked by a legion of Qoh'col in what was interpreted to be a last defiant gesture by the batarian Hegemony against human expansion.

The Qoh'col and their beliefs are revered by most batarians, and the tradition that the left hand is reserved for fighting carries through most batarian cultures. Injuries sustained to the underside of the left arm, including the palm, heel, and fingertips, are considered badges of pride - signifying bravery and strength - and many batarians imitate the Qoh'col tradition of ritually scarifying or tattooing these areas. Injuries to the top of the left arm, by contrast, are shameful, and are seen as evidence of submissiveness.

_–_

**A/N:** I return, yet again! As usual, pardon the slowness. I am slow, but I am determined. More still coming. As usual, thanks to my betas, readers, reviewers, etc.

I must apologize to everyone who reviewed chapter 25 to whom I did not respond. I normally try to answer every single signed review, but I dropped the ball this time. I did not mean to be rude.

How funny was Zaeed in Citadel DLC? "Don't tell him, 'e won't understand" is one of my favorite lines in the whole trilogy. Hilarious stuff.

Chapter 27 shall feature the return of my all-time least favorite character in Mass Effect.

Stay tuned!


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